


a yuzu grows in brooklyn

by stylinsoncity



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chef Harry, Cooking, Famous Harry, Food, Friends to Lovers, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Musician Louis, Sex, Sort Of, Teacher Louis, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-07
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2020-10-10 23:01:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 55,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20536058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stylinsoncity/pseuds/stylinsoncity
Summary: harry is a recent implant in new york and a young chef opening a restaurant called yuzu. louis, a music teacher and broadway lover, has been around the block for a while. in a city that's so fast-paced, they're slow to catch on to each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A_Girl_In_Port](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Girl_In_Port/gifts).

On a shady street in Brooklyn, a fire hydrant sends a spray of water into the air and beneath its arch, a gaggle of children splash around, laughing and squealing. Louis can't blame them. Summer is ending and taking its tireless heat with it. And it’s not just the kids, but everyone, it seems, making one final grab at seasonal fun. 

It’s Friday afternoon and he’s running late. He knows how long it’ll take for a train to come and how long it’ll take the train to get him where he’s going. And he knows he should start leaving a bit earlier when he’s got someplace to be. But the trouble is Louis never really _ wants _ to go anywhere, if he’s honest. It’s more that he feels he has to. It’s loneliness and FOMO and the nagging voice in his head that insists one missed night equates somehow to a whole life of failure. That _ this _ is the start of it all.

Stay at home and die — alone, penniless, miserable. 

If he weren’t perpetually single, he probably wouldn’t think this way. And sometimes he’s aware of how absurd he’s being and overcomes that voice and stays home anyway.

But more often, he gets dressed and gets on the train and allows Zayn and the others to talk him into meeting them at some bar that’s either really shitty or horribly overpriced. And If he’s lucky, there’ll be food he doesn’t have to share. (But usually, he has to grab a dollar slice on the way home.)

Bachelorhood is sweetest in New York. No, he’s not being sarcastic. He’s never heard of sarcasm before in his life.

He exits the subway in Soho and pulls up his maps. A five-minute walk later, he steps into a neon-lit haunt and sees Zayn right away at the bar.

“Hey,” Louis says, stepping into the hug Zayn offers. He’s distinctly aware of someone stood on his other side, watching them, who obviously must be the friend Zayn brought along. He steps back, his expression already morphing into something congenial and polite.

He faces the stranger and blanks.

For reference, his conversation with Zayn earlier that day had gone something like:

** _‘I want you to meet my friend.”_ **

**‘Someone you’re dating?’**

** _‘Nah, just a friend. He’s kind of new to the city and needs to meet ppl. He’s from Cheshire.’_ **

And he’s gorgeous, but that’s the bit Zayn neglected to mention.

Immediately, Louis thinks about the baseball cap he’s wearing and his five-o’clock shadow. He’d barely glanced at himself before stepping through the door. Mentally, he facepalms. Physically, he forces a smile.

“Hi,” the boy says, extending a hand. “Harry.”

“Louis.” They shake. His hand is sort of big. His fingertips calloused. He’s tall and slim and slouchy, nice arms, perfect smile. His hair is short with springy locks sort of shooting everywhere, curling over his forehead. Wide eyes, but not in a comical way. Wide-open and observant. All he’s wearing is a black T-shirt, blue jeans, and Vans. But he is drop-dead gorgeous and Louis has to look away from him, responding in that way he does around boys he’s got a crush on. Which is ridiculous. He’s literally just met him.

Harry looks away too, but after Louis orders a drink and they get a table, their eyes meet again. And they smile at one another. And look away.

“Just going to run to the loo,” Harry says.

He gets up, leaving Zayn and Louis alone.

“Are you _fucking_ _kidding_ me?” Louis says, barely waiting until Harry is beyond earshot.

Zayn’s brows crease. “What?”

“What kind of a friend does this? I’d never do this to you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“You didn’t tell me he looked like _ that _,” Louis says. “Fucking hell—”

Zayn rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his drink. “You just said last week you’re not interested in dating.”

“That’s not the point!”

“He’s not even your type, Louis.”

Louis’ eyes widen. “Since _ when _?”

“He’s 29!” Zayn says. “You don’t date younger men.”

Louis pauses for a second. True, but also— “That’s still not the point. A good friend says, ‘Hey, want you to meet a friend of mine. Just so you know, he’s really fucking fit.’ And anyway that's only two years younger.”

“You don’t even like dating men your own age,” Zayn says, his brows wrinkled.

“You’re grasping at straws.” Louis shakes his head, sipping his drink irately. “I’m staying for one drink and then I’m leaving. I won’t be the victim of this ambush any longer than I have to.”

Zayn ignores him, lifting a menu.

Harry returns, his eyes meeting Louis’ again. “Did you two order?”

“Louis says he’s only staying for one drink,” Zayn says. The amusement in his voice isn’t immediately obvious, but Louis knows him and hears it well.

“Really?” Harry asks. He has the audacity to look disappointed.

Louis shrugs. “Might stay for a bite, I don't know.”

“This place has the best nachos, I heard,” Harry says. “Maybe we could all share a plate?”

Louis is definitely going for a slice of pizza after this. “Sure.” He doesn’t bother looking at the menu. “How do you two know each other?”

“We have a mutual friend,” Harry says. “Clemena.”

Who Louis knows is Zayn’s coworker. She lived in NY a year ago and fucked around exclusively with Zayn until she relocated to their ad agency’s Miami office. Her reasoning was the pursuit of warmer weather. Zayn thinks it’s more to do with commitment issues. He says he’s over it all now.

“I was mostly friends with her online, through Twitter,” Harry says. “When I told her I was coming here, she connected me with Zayn. And we’ve been hanging out ever since.”

Louis narrows his eyes at Zayn. “Has he hit on you yet?” he asks Harry.

Harry laughs. “No, he has not,” he says, then pouts at Zayn. “My tits not nice enough for you?”

Louis and Zayn sputter. They all dissolve into laughter. But Louis is the only one who swoons. He loves a sense of humour. He loves it even more when it’s impolite. Combined with everything else about Harry, he might be in trouble.

“Love your tits mate,” Zayn says in the kind but comical way only he can.

+

Zayn’s Uber pulls away from the kerb and it dawns on Louis that Harry is still standing beside him. Louis smiles awkwardly. “How are you getting home?” he asks.

“I don’t know. I’m actually still hungry,” Harry says. “You?”

“I’m starving, mate,” Louis says and Harry snickers. “I was planning to grab a slice of pizza after this, to be honest.”

“Wow, you had it all worked out?”

“I always do,” Louis says. “I’d invite you, but it’s not a very social place. You just hand them a dollar, they hand you a slice, and you hop on the train, you know?”

“Oh, got it,” Harry says. It could be Louis’ imagination but he looks vaguely disappointed.

“I mean, we could go to Five Guys,” Louis says. “If you‘re trying to get me to stay.”

Harry smiles. “You’re not craving pizza specifically?”

“I could eat anything right now,” Louis says. “To be honest, if I’m craving anything it’s a proper fry-up. Been thinking about it for weeks. I make the best fry-up, mate. Just haven’t had the time.”

“I’d like to see that,” Harry says. “The best fry-up.”

“You sound unconvinced.”

“I mean… Mine is pretty great.”

“Not better than mine, though.”

Harry shrugs, unbothered. “Alright.”

“Listen, I love being right. I especially love when people tell me I’m right. I’m absolutely willing to prove it, so I can hear you tell me how right I am. It’s your call,” Louis says. Harry doesn’t immediately respond. When he looks at him, he’s completely thrown by how pleased he looks. Has anyone ever looked so pleased with him when he’s purposefully being a twat? Louis shoves his hands in his pockets. “You just name a time and place.”

“You’re willing to prove it right now?”

“Well, that’s a bit difficult, seeing as we’re not standing in a kitchen.”

“I’m only six blocks away,” Harry says. “But no pressure.”

“You want me to do a full English right now?”

“Do you need a day or two to prepare?”

“Fuck off, no, I do not,” Louis says. On one hand, his competitive feathers are entirely ruffled. He has to prove himself. His pride simply can’t withstand further teasing. On the other hand, the more Harry teases, the more Louis wants to tease, and he’s not just referring to a bit of banter. He’s attracted to Harry, _ obviously _. As dishevelled as he feels, he thinks Harry is attracted to him too. And there’s nothing like the bleak, dickless expanse of summer to convince a person that a cook-off at 10 P.M. is a good idea. He shrugs. “Fine. I’ve got nothing to lose.”

The walk to Harry’s East Village apartment is short, so there’s no time for Louis to reconsider his choices. On the way up, Louis does wonder how Harry affords this place and if, when they walk in, there’ll be five roommates crammed in the living room. As it turns out, it’s just Harry and a girl named Claire, a friend of a friend of a friend, who’s currently visiting family in Sweden.

“It’s actually her apartment. Or her grandmum’s or something,” Harry says, turning a light on in the living room. There’s heirloom furniture everywhere, but it’s not tasteless. A slightly weathered brown velvet couch. A high-gloss wood cabinet housing the telly. Lots of rugs. Probably Persian. A painted tea set on the kitchen table. “I’m staying with her until I find something else.”

“So you’re not paying rent?” Louis asks, candidly.

Harry looks at him like he’s crazy. “Of course. We’re splitting it.”

Louis makes a mental note of that.

They convene in the kitchen. It’s small in general, but big for Manhattan. Tiny and artsy with colourful tiles and kitschy wares. Harry fiddles with his phone and soon after, Shania Twain starts crooning from a speaker in the corner.

“Good thinking,” Louis says. “I’ll need a victory soundtrack.”

Harry ignores him. “How do you want to do this? You go first?”

“Nope. Best for last,” Louis says. He takes a seat on one of the leather stools at the bar, facing Harry. “Also, I don’t know where everything is.”

Harry drums his hands on the counter, idly. “Alright then.” He ties on a millennial pink apron from a hook by the fridge with the initials H.S. on the corner. He then unclips the tiny hair claw on the pocket of the apron and fixes his hair into a little knot atop his head. Louis smiles, terribly endeared, but adamantly unfazed by this whole performance. Who cares that he has a personalized apron? That says nothing about his skill.

Harry washes his hands and gets started. “What do you do by the way?”

“I’m the choir instructor at P.S. 38.,” Louis says. “And I do piano lessons during the summer. One day, maybe I’ll end up on Broadway. It’s why I’m here.”

“That’s pretty amazing,” Harry says. “I’d ask you to sing for me, but I’m sure you get that all the time. It seems like, with careers in the arts, people always want you to validate it on the spot.”

“I do get that sometimes, but I wouldn't mind singing for you. Only thing is, since I’m about to completely embarrass you, cooking wise, I don’t want to seem like a show-off, you know? Best to not reveal all my cards at once.”

“Right, of course,” Harry says, trying to not laugh. “You mind if I put a spin on this by the way?”

“Whatever lessens your disadvantage.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Harry decides with a sigh.

He gets all his ingredients out. Sausages and bacon that it looks like he purchased from a butcher, plump red and yellow tomatoes, a carton of mushrooms, eggs, and a can of baked beans. “I don’t have the right bacon and I don’t have black pudding.”

“It’ll do,” Louis says, fiddling with a stack of puzzle-piece-shaped coasters. “How are you liking New York?”

Harry gets started on the sausage and bacon. “Better now than at the start of the year.”

“That’s when you moved?”

“After Christmas last year,” Harry says. “I actually arrived on New Years. And it was kind of miserable. It was so cold and I was alone and sad, I guess. And then, I don’t know, I got over myself. And I got in touch with Zayn like Clemena told me too. And it’s been better.”

“Sounds like you were right to throw a little fit. You can hang out with us next New Year’s.”

Harry glances away from the hob. “I’d like that,” he says, so earnestly Louis is once again thrown. And then Whitney Houston’s ‘How Will I Know’ is on and the moment passes. This is how it goes for the next twenty minutes or so. When they aren’t humming along or moving minutely to the music, they chat about New York mostly.

Louis is vaguely aware of what Harry is doing, but altogether unthreatened by Harry adding onions and brown sugar to his baked beans or a splash of cooking wine to his mushrooms. In truth, Louis has only ever used salt and pepper for seasoning, but he thinks the merit of a first-class English breakfast lies in perfectly seared and perfectly browned ingredients. He’s done this enough times that he’s quite confident in this area, if nothing else.

“I’ve got some brioche, if you’re okay with that,” Harry says.

Louis resists an eye roll. “Whatever.”

It’s not until Harry starts plating his meal that Louis grows mildly concerned. He’s sure he’s seen similar techniques while watching Iron Chef. Harry slides the plate across the counter towards Louis and hands him a fork as well. Louis regards him suspiciously as he finnagels some sausage and tomato onto his fork with a bit of egg and beans. He jams it all into his mouth.

It takes considerable effort not to moan. Or orgasm, even. 

It’s incredible. Way more flavourful than he’s ever had it but in a subtle way. It’s the same dish he grew up eating but somehow better. Somehow exciting and zesty. It’s also perfectly grilled or crispy where it's meant to be. Louis wishes he were at home alone, in his pyjamas in his bed so he could shovel it all into his maw as quickly as humanly possible. As it is, Harry’s eyes are on him and Louis’ pride is in jeopardy, so he puts his fork down carefully and asks, “So, what are you? A chef?”

With his hands folded behind his back and a smug little smile on his face, Harry says, “Yes, actually.”

“Like professionally?”

“Yes.”

Louis exhales. “You’re not like Bobby Flay famous, are you?”

“We’re acquainted, but no.”

“What the fuck,” Louis whispers. He lifts his plate. “I’m taking this with me.”

Harry laughs. “Where are you going?”

On the couch in the living, Louis does a quick Google search. His suspicions are immediately confirmed. “You’re Google-able!”

“I know,” Harry says, humbly. He’s sitting on the arm of the couch now.

There are pictures of him with chefs at fancy venues, pictures of him holding awards, a link to an article in the Independent that once featured him.

“Is that Wikipedia?” Harry asks, sounding horrified. “Please don’t read that. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

Louis puts his phone down. “Fine. Where do you work?”

“Augustine,” Harry says.

As in a very fancy, very celebrity-ridden French restaurant in Midtown with locations in London, Paris and San Francisco. A film or two has been shot there, in its marble and ivory dining rooms or its ivied balconies. TV specials have been centered on it and its owner, Anne Augustine — thrice Michelin-starred, winner of obscure awards, author of acclaimed books.

“Shit,” Louis says. “That’s incredible.”

“It sounds more incredible than it is,” Harry says. “I have an in with the owner.”

“Um, okay, you mean Anne Augustine?” Louis laughs. “Are you two best mates?”

“Sometimes,” Harry says, cryptically. And when Louis crosses his arms and waits for more, he adds, “She’s actually my mum.”

It’s silent for a beat or two afterwards. Louis is quite good at sniffing out bullshit, but there’s none to detect here. He gawks. “Sorry, w_hat?_”

“I know,” Harry says again, more solemn than before.

“She did Barack Obama’s birthday dinner last year, Harry! My mum records her show religiously,” Louis says, hoping these facts will convey the full scope of his internal hysteria.

“Yes,” Harry says. “But she’s really not a celebrity. She’s done a lot of high-profile things. But she’s genuinely a very normal person. And we don’t get along all of the time.”

“_Harry_,” Louis says. “She has a show on Netflix.”

Harry snorts. “It’s not _ her _ show. She’s just on it.”

“Alright, whatever. So, you and your mum are famous and this hasn’t come up until now. Does Zayn know?”

“Maybe Clemena’s said something, but we haven’t talked about it. I’m really not famous, Louis,” Harry says, sounding a little desperate to be believed. “I mean, people might know of me in the industry, but if they do, I’m Anne’s son. I don’t have a cookbook. I’m not on a show. And that Wikipedia page is one paragraph long. It’s embarrassing that it even exists. Your food is getting cold.”

Louis collects his plate and carries on eating. “Alright, but you’re like her protege, yeah? Your mum’s?”

Harry unclips his hair and runs his hands through it roughly. “Before we get into this, do you want a drink?” he asks.

“Sure.”

So, Harry makes them bourbon cocktails with apple and maple supposedly — also, disgustingly delicious — and fixes a less fancy plate of food for himself.

“I don’t consider myself her protege. She taught me a lot, but I don’t think she wanted me to be a chef… Plus, she’s more traditional whereas I’ve taken French cuisine and merged it with Japanese cuisine—” Harry trails off. “I have a restaurant in London. It’s about three years old. And we’re opening a location in New York. That’s why I’m here. In addition to sitting in at Augustine.”

Louis props his arm up against the back of the couch and rests his forehead against his fist. “Does the French and Japanese fusion have to do with why you don’t get along all the time?”

Harry has a sip of his drink. “Uh…”

“Or we can stop talking about this?”

“No, it’s fine,” Harry says and it seems like he means it. He slouches in the couch, balancing his glass on his knee. “That’s part of it, I guess. She’s just pretty tough on me. If we’re not talking about food, it’s all fine. I think, if I’d become a doctor like my sister, things would be different. ‘Cause there’s not much she could say about that. But I think, once I followed in her footsteps, it’s like she felt she had to control everything. Like if I wasn’t successful maybe that would reflect badly on her. And I mean, there aren’t many women in the industry who’ve made it as far as she has, so she has more to protect. I don’t know, and she’s really busy, so I’ve never had a chance to ask.”

“It’s good of you to think about it from her point of view,” Louis says.

Harry shrugs. “I’m just guessing. Also I’m making this all sound so morbid, but it isn't. I’m really lucky. I always have been.”

“Listen, you don’t have to do that. You can be honest with me. Even if you think you sound ungrateful,” Louis says. “Just as long as you don’t judge me when I whine or complain, which I do often.”

“Deal,” Harry says, and they tap their glasses together. “You should come by the restaurant sometime. I’ll comp you.”

Louis wiggles his brows. “Look at me,” he says. “I’ve got friends in high places now.”

And it never occurs to him that he shouldn’t refer to Harry as a friend or that he’s lost sight of his original goal to get horizontal with this boy by midnight. Because by then, his big brother instincts have kicked in. He looks at Harry reclined on the couch, every part of him unguarded and unassuming. His palm open or loosely curled around his glass, his shoulders slumped, slightly oily curls falling over his forehead. Louis considers his humor and his humility and his palpably zealous spirit. And suddenly, his concern for Harry is much less sexual than he would have anticipated upon meeting him.

“So tell me more about your restaurant,” Louis says. “What’s it called?”

Harry’s smile is back. “Yuzu. It’s named after a Japanese citrus tree. You want to see something cool? Or well, it’s not that cool yet, but someday, it might be very cool.”

“I’m not sure, to be honest.”

“Come on.” Harry takes Louis’ hand and tugs him to his feet anyway. He walks him to the balcony. Because of course they have a balcony. There’s a white-framed greenhouse the size of a wardrobe set up there with some plants and herbs growing in assorted pots. And in the center is a dwarf tree of vibrant dark green leaves.

“You know you can absolutely grow a lemon tree in New York,” Harry says, sliding the greenhouse door open. “It’s difficult and they’re temperamental as fuck, but it’s been done. I don’t know if anyone’s ever tried a yuzu tree. But I’m giving it a go.”

He looks so infectiously enthusiastic, Louis finds himself smiling and leaning in to inspect the tree as well. “Did you name it?” he asks. “Has to have a name.”

“She’s Stevie,” Harry says. “For Stevie Nicks.”

“Can’t go wrong with that. Do you talk to her?”

“Every day,” Harry stands up straight, crossing his arms. “Also, now that you’ve met her, you have to come by again and talk to her too. Like, often.”

Louis shakes his head, exasperated. “Yeah, alright. But I get dinner whenever I do.”

“Obviously.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watches Chef's Table once...
> 
> A couple things: 1) hello! long time no fic! 2) this is for my fren, j.h., who i adore very much. 3) this genuinely did arise from too much chef's table. 4) this will be very short but i can't update consistently so tread carefully.


	2. Chapter 2

That November is slow and mindless. There’s not enough work ethic to go around with the holidays encroaching. It’s gotten too cold too fast and that doesn’t make it any easier to get out of bed. Louis wakes that morning to dreary grey skies dotted by a half-hearted snowfall. It’s the first snowfall of the season with not even an inch of accumulation to its name, but Louis has planned his whole weekend around it.

Step one: Stock up on snacks and hangover cures.

Step two: Get pissed beyond reason with Zayn and Harry.

Step three: Sleep in with Harry.

Step three might yet make November worth it.

It’s important to note that Harry clings in his sleep. When Louis isn’t in bed, he clings to pillows. Sometimes he clings to himself, curled inward, arms folded. Louis likes to play big spoon often enough, but he’s discovered over the past two months that he also likes to be clung to. Two months is all it’s taken for Harry to get this comfortable with him — his knee over Louis’ thigh, an arm bridging Louis’ waist. He is everywhere, heavy and warm and welcome because the radiator in Louis’ room doesn’t perform as it must have a hundred years ago.

Louis turns to face him, careful not to make sudden movements, fully intending to go back to sleep.

Harry’s alarm goes off — the “foghorn” tone because Harry is a complete maniac. Their faces wrinkle simultaneously. Harry lifts his arm away from Louis and it’s instantly, offensively cold. Fuck November.

“Wouldn’t hit the snooze button if I were you,” Louis says.

“Already did.” Harry turns back, arm collapsing on Louis’ waist.

“You haven’t noticed, but there’s something snowy happening outside.”

Harry peeks one eye open at the window. “Doesn’t look promising. Bet you the restaurant stays open.”

“Call out sick.”

Harry pushes his face into a pillow. “Manon will tell my mum.”

“No, he won’t.”

But Louis can’t say that with certainty. Manon is the head chef at Augustine’s New York location and, by Harry’s account, a spy. Everything that this short, weathered man witnesses within Augustine makes it back to London and back to Anne. Or so Harry says. 

“Who’s going to keep me warm if you leave?” Louis asks.

Harry’s eyes open again. His smile is sleepy and just as slow to come as the snow falling outside. “You’re right. Guess I have to stay.”

And he does stay, at least until his alarm goes off again. Then he slides and slumps his way out of bed. He’s wearing a thin white shirt and pants, his jeans somewhere on the floor. As he bends over to find them, Louis studies the notches of his spine and the graceful way his curls fall forward. A coil of brown hair like a detail in a classical painting. A little too lovely to be true.

“Thanks for letting me spend the night,” Harry says.

Louis catches the last glimpse of Harry’s thighs before he’s drawn his jeans up all the way. “You know what I consider gratitude? Sticking around and making me an omelette.”

“I’ll make you an omelette,” Harry says on his way out of the bedroom, his tan jumper thrown over his shoulder. “But I can’t stay.”

Louis hears him in the bathroom and a moment later, shuffling into the kitchen. He joins him, a blanket drawn around his bare shoulders. Harry puts the electric kettle on. Louis gets two mugs out of the dishwasher and a frying pan. They’re making as much noise as they need because Steven, Louis’ roommate, spends most mornings and nights with his girlfriend. That morning is no different.

“Oh, I meant to say,” Harry begins, excitedly, pointing a spatula at Louis, “I think I found a place.”

“Oh? Where at?”

“It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from here. It’s not perfect, but I need to leave Claire’s. I said I’d only be there for six months and it’s nearly been a year.”

“Yeah, but it seems like she likes having you there,” Louis says, dunking two tea bags around in their mugs. “And I genuinely don’t mind you staying with me when you need to.”

“You get breakfast out of it, why would you?”

“And a spare blanket. Don’t forget that.”

Harry smiles. “Claire’s place is too far from Yuzu. And that’s going to be a bigger problem when we actually open. When I get off at 3 AM, you’re not going to mind me stomping in here? While you’re sleeping?”

“No,” Louis says, and means it.

It’s only Louis’ bedroom that keeps cold. The rest of the apartment is warm enough. No human blanket necessary (although always accepted). It’s small and a bit decrepit. The oven and the toilet often need coaxing to work and the dishwasher was installed two years ago with questionable haste. His landlord is shit and the super is nonexistent. In fact, when Louis’ toilet stopped working a week ago, it was Harry who helped him fix it.

Amongst the shoddy features of his place, Harry’s presence is always welcome, by him and Steven both. And if there was some feasible way to turn his two-bedroom into a three-bedroom and move Harry in, Louis would probably try. So no. At present, he wouldn’t mind if Harry came stomping in at 3 AM, but he’ll have to reassess if and when necessary.

The omelette features Parma ham, green peppers and onions — none of which Louis purchased on his own — and it’s delicious. Louis vacillates constantly between wanting to inhale Harry’s food and wanting to savour it. It seems like two bites pass and his plate is clean and his heart is broken.

“Thanks, babe,” Louis says, dropping a smooch at the top of Harry’s head on his way to the sink. “Leave your dish in the sink. I mean it.”

“Sure,” Harry says, but they both know he’ll load the dishwasher anyway. “Back to sleep?”

“A very cold, miserable sleep, yeah.”

+

Yuzu is situated on a corner in Williamsburg, close to the waterfront. It’s ochre-framed windows are set into white brick and currently papered over to hide whatever developments are happening inside. There’s no sign up yet. Just the abstract shape of a yuzu painted on the door. Harry specifies that it’s a yuzu on the door, not a lemon, but Louis can’t really see the difference.

Harry also says a yuzu tree is harder to grow and a pain in the arse to maintain, but that was before it met him. He has a book on his coffee table called “Practical Botany: A Guide to Plant Nurturing.” And nurture Stevie he does. He’s brought her into his room for the winter to a spot by the window, humidifiers and a heater in close proximity. (Louis can only imagine the state of his electric bill.) He has a playlist — “a yuzu grows in brooklyn” — that he plays loudly every morning when Claire leaves for work and softly every night before he goes to bed. He sings to her. He dotes on her. He loves her.

They depart the restaurant that Saturday morning and arrive at a showroom in Chelsea. They seat themselves at a round table, all set with placemats, chargers and plates, wine glasses and gleaming silverware. (Louis can’t imagine owning any of this for his personal use. He bought a 20-piece dinner set from Ikea when he first moved to NY. Couldn’t say where any of it is now.)

Holding a wine glass aloft, Harry says, “Tried poetry the other night.”

“What do you mean you tried poetry?” Louis asks slowly. “You’ve never read poetry before?”

“No, I meant to Stevie.”

Louis stumbles mentally. Honest to God, he never wants Harry to change, but he also never knows how to respond to him either. He starts to tease him, like he always does when Harry is especially ridiculous, but instead, Louis asks, “What did you read?”

And that’s how they end up with their heads inclined as Harry reads Warsan Shire’s “first thought after seeing you smile” from his phone. Louis isn’t used to this. This isn’t what he gets up to with most of his friends, but he also can’t imagine a time when he wasn’t friends with Harry. 

+

_As_ Harry’s friend, Louis would probably never admit this without the nudge of alcohol: But Harry is especially tempting when he’s in the kitchen.

Over-confident in a way that Louis hates to love. He’s wearing a white button-up blouse, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Forearms peppered with tattoos. A black Augustine-branded apron around his waist. And a black paisley print headband keeping his fringe subdued. He’s also wielding a massive slightly menacing knife like it’s an extension of himself. (Tasteless innuendos abound.)

Louis has done tremendously well in keeping things platonic but he thinks about untying Harry’s apron all the time. Specifically his apron. Like it’s the most erotic thing he could do to him. He once had an entirely food-related wet dream about Harry while Harry slept beside him. There was grilled pineapple involved. Excessive amounts of chocolate. And it all started with Louis drawing the string of Harry’s apron loose.

There’s a loud chop. “Ah, fuck!” Harry exclaims.

Louis is on his feet immediately. “What? What is it? Are you hurt?”

“No, just trying to get your attention,” Harry says.

“Oh, _ fuck _ you,” Louis grumbles, sinking back to his stool. “Stop doing that.”

“I was _ saying— _ I heard about your winter recital.”

Louis recoils. “How?”

“I talked to your sister yesterday. And she asked if I was going,” Harry says. “I told her I’d never heard of it.”

“Sorry. You _ talked _ to my sister? When did you even get her number?”

“She messaged me on Twitter about a recipe of my mum’s that your mum’s been trying. And I gave her my number so we could all FaceTime.”

“Who is _ all _? I wasn’t FaceTiming with you yesterday.”

“Me, your mum, Lottie. Doris was on there too.”

Louis is vaguely charmed. He recalls mentioning Harry to Lottie once. And he mentioned Lottie to Harry no more than twice. Somehow with that menial connection, Harry found his way to FaceTiming the whole family. It’s… impressive.

And troubling. “They’re going to think we’re dating.”

“Would that be weird?” Harry asks.

“Yes?” Louis says. It’s not a question. For his family to think they’re dating when they’re not is absolutely weird. Unless Harry’s asking if them dating in and of itself would be weird. The answer is still yes, but much less so.

“Flattering but weird, yes,” Louis adds.

“I think my mum would be really proud of me if I told her I was dating you,” Harry says with a hint of a smile.

Louis narrows his eyes. “I detect a little sarcasm in there I don’t like.”

Harry blows him a kiss. He slides the onions and peppers he’s just chopped into a pan and gets the stove going, then goes to the fridge and withdraws something wrapped in brown paper. “Anyway. You didn’t tell me about your winter recital.”

“Must have forgot.”

Harry unwraps the paper and draws his knife off the table. He begins slicing the skin from a large fillet of fish, drawing the blade down the side, slow and steady. “I want to come.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I absolutely do,” Harry says. The blade is so sharp, the skin practically slides away from the fish. Harry sets it aside. “Also, I checked and I’ve got nothing happening December 10th, so I’m going.”

“You can’t show up if I don’t invite you.”

“Well, invite me.” He slices a thin section of fish, spears it with his knife and extends it to Louis. “Taste this.”

Louis leans in without question. He’s stopped asking questions. In the kitchen, Harry never leads him astray. He eats the fish off the knife. It’s cold, but not frozen. Tender and satisfying. As he chews, Harry gets a bottle of white wine from the fridge, uncorks it and pours Louis a glass.

“It’s really fresh, isn’t it? And lean, right?” Harry asks. “It’s neutral too. So is the wine. That’s a Japanese Koshu grape. The fish is barramundi. So, the plan is to start with that, then there’ll be yuzu and japanese white peaches. Me and Tyler are still figuring it out.”

In a tone he hopes is nonchalant, Louis asks, “How is Tyler?”

“Fine since we last talked. Why?”

Louis shrugs. “He still hasn’t accepted my follow request on Instagram. I don’t really care, but it seems purposeful. Like he accepted Zayn’s request but not mine. And I’m all over your Instagram. All over your Twitter. I’m just saying.”

He does care, obviously, although it’s another thing he’ll never admit. Tyler Nishimura is Harry’s business partner, the chef running Yuzu London, and one of his oldest friends. They met in Year 10 and studied together in Japan during uni. Harry has referred to him as his ‘visionary soulmate’ — insert a gag here — because they see eye-to-eye on all things concerning food and artistry and industry.

Tyler is also Google-able and good-looking, although engaged and straight.

“He needs time to warm up to people,” Harry says.

“But not Zayn? Not Clemena or Claire?”

Harry looks at Louis, cautiously. “I think he thinks we’re dating, to be honest. And he’s always wary of people I date.”

“Well, that doesn’t clear things up at all. Why would he be wary of people you date?”

Harry doesn’t answer right away, applying an unnecessary amount of focus on neatly trimming the fish. “I had a bad breakup, like, five years ago," he finally says. "It’s not worth talking about now, but Tyler was there for all of it. He‘s said before, ‘You have great taste, except when it comes to people’. I mean, he’s wrong. I’ve dated since then and it’s never been as bad.” He sets his knife down. “And you’re obviously a different case. He’d like you if he met you.”

Louis wants to ask about the ex who can’t be named. It’s an itch he’ll eventually have to scratch. But not now and not until Harry’s ready. As for Tyler, Louis sees himself as a very permanent fixture in Harry’s life and so it’s not a question of if Tyler will approve of him, but when.

“I think you’re off to a great start with the dish,” Louis says, and Harry is visibly relieved by the diversion. “Very excited to try the finished thing.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Harry says. “So, am I invited to your recital?”

“Christ. Fine, you're invited.” Louis has a sip of his wine. “But don’t come.”

+

The auditorium is packed, but Louis is _ not _ looking for him. Even if he tried, the spotlights are too bright and he can’t see individual faces clearly. He just knows Harry is one of them. He herds his music class onto the stage, which is framed by two Christmas trees. Up above dangle stars made by the kindergartners and those icicle-shaped lights. He makes sure his altos and sopranos and tenors are organized, all of them dressed in their shimmery holiday ensembles. Curly hair. Shiny shoes.

Tony, his trouble child, responds to all the attention in the room immediately and starts hip-checking his choir mates. Louis shoots him a look. “Save all that energy for the music,” he says. “We’re going to need it, alright? Big smiles, everyone. Who’s feeling great?”

“We’re feeling great,” they all reply, a bit too loudly.

“Who’s looking good?”

“We’re looking good!”

He claps his hands together. “Let’s do this.”

The audience is laughing amusedly and the kids are giggling, all their merry energy pinging around the room. Louis approaches the mic. “Good evening. Thank you, Ms Houston for the introduction. And thank you all for coming out to our annual holiday recital. As I’m sure you can tell, the kids are excited for you to hear what we’ve been working on. And so am I. As usual, we’re accepting donations in the back to support the music program and other arts programs at P.S. 38. Half of those donations will be given to The Red Cross. I want to start by saying how much it means that you’ve joined us tonight to celebrate the best time of year—”

There’s a _ stomp, stomp, stomp. _ The kids gasp dramatically as one of the teachers, Mr Fontamillas, enters the stage, dressed as the Grinch. “Who are _ you _?” he roars. “What’s all this racket out here?”

Louis turns to him, mic in hand. “Uh, I’m Mr Tomlinson, the music director. And _ this _ is the P.S. 38 choir. We’re putting on a holiday concert.”

“Well, _ I _ am the P.S. 38 Grinch,” Mr Fontamillas says. “And I’ll have _ no _ holiday cheer around here. No singing! No dancing!”

Louis regards the audience with a look of dismay. “Mr Grinch,” he says, turning to face Mr Fontamillas. “Maybe you could hear one of our songs before you make up your mind? Kids, don’t you think we could change his mind?”

They start wailing “yes” as rehearsed with additional enthusiastic stomps of their feet.

“I’d like to see you try!” says the P.S. 38 Grinch.

“Alright, then,” Louis says, replacing the mic. He goes to the piano. The spotlights redirect on the children and Louis chances another glance at the audience. Somewhere out there, Harry is getting a kick out of their performance. Louis has never had trouble giving this show his all. He loves working with these kids. He loves his job. But there’s an extra beat of excitement behind every step and every move he takes, positioning himself at the piano. He knows this aspect of his life inside and out. It’s admittedly thrilling that Harry gets to know it now too.

Without warning, Louis drags his hand down the piano keys and begins to play, upbeat and fast. He hardly sits during the show. He can’t move or dance with the kids if he’s sitting. One winter, he got so excited, he knocked the piano bench over. (He’s been slightly more careful ever since.) Once they get started on their rendition of “Sleigh Ride,” he’s back to his old ways, moving and encouraging the kids to move, encouraging them all to have a good time, pulling funny faces that make them smile.

When they finish their first number, the P.S. 38 Grinch goes, “Alright, alright. You can sing, that’s true. But I’m still not convinced this season is worth the fuss. What else have you got?”

Susanna, his assistant, takes over the piano for a few songs — one where they do a bit of sign language, another that involves some choreography and a medley that some of the kids struggled to learn. They perform nine songs all together and finish off with “Jingle Bell Rock.” By then, The Grinch is getting down and wearing a Santa hat. Everyone in the audience is on their feet, Harry more than likely included.

At the end of it all, The Grinch reports that he’s seen the fairy light and bids them a Happy Holiday. They take their bows. And that’s another year’s recital wrapped.

Louis gets inevitably drawn into conversations with parents afterwards who mostly wish him a Merry Christmas. One suggests a solo for their kid next year. Louis says he’ll take that into consideration. He gets gifts and cards from families, as well as a large poinsettia that Susanna takes to his office.

When he finally finds Harry, his arms are full so he can’t catapult into a hug like he wants.

“Hi,” Louis says, grinning. “You actually came.”

“Shut up. Of course I did. You were absolutely amazing,” Harry says. “I got the whole thing on video for your family.”

Louis laughs. “Thanks for that,” he says, his tone dry and not at all indicative of how exuberant he feels. They smile at one another for a second too long until Louis says, “What?”

“Um, I brought you a box of chocolate from Augustine,” Harry says. Then, after a beat, “Is it wrong to say you looked really hot up there?”

Louis’ brows arch high. “Oh, did I?”

“Yeah. You’re all sweaty.”

“Still?” Louis asks.

“Yeah. And your top button’s come undone too,” Harry says, biting his lip. 

Louis rolls his eyes. “Alright, pervert. I hope your mind wasn’t in the gutter the whole time.”

“Just half the time,” Harry says, smiling. “Your coworkers want to go for drinks after this, by the way.”

“Harry,” Louis groans. “How have you already made friends with my coworkers?”

“I said hi,” Harry says. And Louis wholeheartedly believes that’s all it takes for Harry to draw someone into his circle. One greeting and before the night’s through, they’re sharing their life stories and getting to know his yuzu tree.

“And are you joining us for drinks?” Louis asks, playfully stern.

“I mean, Sandra invited me.”

Louis has to laugh. “Good. ‘Cause I’m only going now that you are.” It’s not true. He would have gone no matter what because he felt obligated. But he also would have had a lot less fun.

They head to a bar down the street after all the kids and their families have gone home. It’s a quaint spot, fully regaled with fairy lights and garlands and a Christmas tree in the corner. But the best part?

There’s karaoke. 

“I’m putting a request in,” Louis announces almost immediately after they secure seats. “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for.”

Harry’s eyes go comically wide. “You’re going to sing for me?”

“_ Just _ for you,” Louis says. “I need a shot, though, I think.”

“I’m on it,” Harry says and turns to the bartender. While he puts in an order for shots and beers, Louis submits a song for karaoke. He returns to find Lauren and Sandra and Diane surrounding Harry, visibly enamoured. He joins the conversation, but they hardly notice him. He’s amused and oddly proud. Like: “Yes, this is my boy. I’m so glad you all could meet him and like him.”

Except Lauren. Louis doesn’t like Lauren very much. She doesn’t have a great sense of humor and accuses everyone on staff of attacking her when they don’t get on board with her terrible ideas. Also, when they first met, she insisted on saying, “‘Ello, chap” every time she saw Louis and wouldn’t stop until he began ignoring her. All that said, Harry is very kind to her and she’s clearly very into it.

Another drink later, at the bar, Sandra says, “He is _ cute _.”

“Very cute,” Louis agrees.

“He’s single?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” Louis says. “If it’s Lauren, then no. She can’t have him.”

As they usually do in the teacher’s lounge around lunchtime, he and Sandra descend into snickering and shit-talking about anything and everything. It’s not until she leaves that Louis checks on Harry. Diane and Vera, the math and physical education teachers respectively, have taken to the stage to sing Santa Baby. Which means Harry is alone with Lauren.

Louis orders another two beers and wiggles one at Harry. It takes a second, but Harry successfully extracts himself from his company and joins him. “What were you and Sandra laughing about?” he asks.

“Lauren, mostly,” Louis says. “You’re attracted to women sometimes, yeah?”

“Sometimes…”

“Not Lauren, though?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Sandra and I agreed Lauren might be into you. But I don’t approve. Just in case you were considering it. Also, actually, it’d be nice if you weren’t interested in any of my coworkers.”

Harry has a long sip of his beer, his gaze averted, and takes his time placing the glass back on the counter.

“Or you can date them, if you want,” Louis says. “It’s not that big of a deal, I guess.”

“No, thanks,” Harry says, amicably. He still isn’t looking at him. “Are you dating someone?”

“No. I’d tell you if I was,” Louis says.

Harry nods, his lips pursed. He glances at him fleetingly. “When’s your song coming up?”

The subject change is so swift Louis is momentarily confused. “I have no idea,” he says, looking towards the stage. He also doesn’t really care. The more pressing issue is that he might have offended Harry, although he doesn’t know how. It’s true that he doesn’t want Harry getting involved with any of his coworkers, but he also can’t control who Harry dates. And he wasn’t actually trying to, if that’s how it came off. Harry should know not to take Louis too seriously, especially when he’s had a few drinks.

Miraculously, Diane and Vera come rushing to him with the mic. His name is on the screen, he realizes, along with his song of choice. 

“Showtime,” Louis says to Harry.

Mariah Carey’s “All I Want For Christmas Is You” seemed like the only acceptable choice for the mood. It’s the only song Louis wants to sing in the moment and he’s not ashamed. There’s already a group of folks in the corner moving in sync to the opening notes. And Harry dissolves into laughter when Louis turns dramatically to face the crowd and begins to sing.

It’s all uphill from there. The bartender is dancing. His coworkers are dancing. Harry is dancing with the bartender and Louis’ coworkers, and singing along the whole time. It’s how the rest of the night goes and it’s the first time they acknowledge their mutual love of dancing. Because they could go all night. They come pretty close, exhausting themselves an hour or two after Louis’ coworkers have left.

It’s one in the morning when Louis loops Harry’s scarf around his neck and gives his cheek a pinch. He struggles into his own coat. “I need to get out of here.”

“Let’s split a cab,” Harry says.

Louis shrugs. “If you want. But I’m paying for it.”

Harry scratches his name across the bill. He opened a tab on his card when they first arrived, then declined to split the bill with anyone. If Louis’ coworkers weren’t already obsessed with him, they are now. “Whatever,” Harry says, smiling.

Louis doesn’t realize how drunk he is until he starts walking towards the door and the whole world goes askew. Harry places a hand on his lower back.

“Probably shouldn’t have had that last shot,” Louis reports.

He hardly remembers the cab ride. His last shot sets in halfway through and his head ends up on Harry’s shoulder. He remembers mumbling unintelligible words to him, making a strong point mentally that doesn’t translate as well verbally. As he climbs out of the cab, he realizes Harry has given the driver Louis’ address and that Harry paid for the cab and that the cab is now pulling off and that Harry is not in it.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?” Louis complains, bracing himself on a lamppost. “I’m supposed to pay for you to get home.” He pokes Harry in his chest.

“I’m fine. I’ll catch a cab as soon as you get inside.”

“Harry,” Louis says, adamantly. He starts digging in his bag for his keys. Can’t find them. Harry finds them for him. “I love you, you know that.”

Harry looks at him. “Love you too.”

“And I’m not _ that _ drunk, you know that too?” Louis says. He may very well be that drunk. “Do you want to stay?”

“Not tonight.” Harry follows Louis up the steps to the door anyway. “Thanks for letting me come, though. I’ll ring you tomorrow. Make sure you’re alright.”

Louis laughs. He can’t say why. He had fun tonight and he’s happier and more content than he’s been in a while and he is so close to getting in his bed. He goes to give Harry a hug, propelled by a rush of inebriated emotions that he won’t remember in the morning. He ends up grabbing Harry by the cheeks and planting a firm kiss on his mouth.

“You’re my favorite,” he says, drawing him into the hug he was aiming for. “My boy.”

Harry’s laugh is at first shocked, then soft. He hugs Louis back. He clings to him. Drawing away, his gaze is on Louis' mouth, and Louis' is on his. “I think you’re drunker than you think you are," Harry says.

“Maybe so. But you’re still my boy,” Louis says, releasing him. “Now go home.”

“I’ll give you a ring tomorrow.”

Louis shoves his key into the door, shooting him an “okay” as he staggers inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brits living in NY is kind of hard/awkward to write imo, lol.
> 
> Ty for reading!! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Hours before midnight on Christmas Eve, Louis is in an Irish pub with Zayn and Steve when Harry calls from London. He can hardly hear himself when he answers. All the TVs are on too loud, replaying a Liverpool and Arsenal game from earlier that day, and he has to practically shout ‘hello’.

“Sorry, I knew you’d still be out,” Harry says.

“It’s alright.” Louis taps Zayn on his shoulder and gestures to the door. He wraps his scarf around his neck and braces for the cold. “I was leaving anyway.”

He wasn’t. He had half a pint left and the game was getting to the best part. But he’s also tired and he’ll admit the day has felt all wrong without Harry around. 

“It’s late as fuck there, isn’t it?” Louis asks.

“Or early as fuck, yeah. I accidentally fell asleep too early. I meant to call you sooner,” Harry says. “Happy Birthday again. And it’s Christmas here already, so Happy Christmas.”

Louis jams his free hand into his pocket. “Thank you. Happy Christmas to you too.”

“You should check your mail. I sent you something before I left.”

“Aw, you shouldn’t have, but thank you. How are things at home?”

“It’s fine. Christmas is always a big production here. Lots of food. Lots of people.” 

Harry’s family is massive. His mum and dad, while divorced, have stayed close. So every year his step mum and step-siblings attend Christmas at Anne’s. He has a sprawling branch of family in France — in Brittany where his mum was raised for part of her life — including an uncle who’s a duke or something. His sister is married with a baby. And his half-brother from his mum’s second marriage is engaged. It sounds like it could be fun under the right influence or with the right company.

“Pretty sure I’d be having more fun if I hadn’t left,” Harry says.

“If it makes you feel better, you’re not missing out on much here.”

“You’re there.”

“Fair point,” Louis says. “I miss you too.”

He stops at the mailbox in the hallway of his apartment and fishes out a package that’s been stuffed inside. “What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

“Huge dinner later, bigger than tonight. Or last night, technically. My mum’s got an interview around noon. Nothing serious.”

“You sound exhausted,” Louis says, pushing his shoes off in the hallway.

“I _ am _ exhausted. My mum is too. I keep suggesting every year that we go away for Christmas, but she says she likes it.”

“Then she probably does,” Louis says, hopping up onto the kitchen counter, his last beer of the night in hand. “She probably looks forward to it.”

“No, you’re right. I know.”

Louis hates how somber he sounds. He'd give him a cuddle if he were here. “How would you do it?” he asks.

“Do what?”

He pulls the phone away from his ear to read the message he’s just received. Steve asks, ‘_ Did you leave? _’

‘_ So drunk. Had to _,’ Louis sends back. “Sorry,” he says, returning the call. “What would your Christmas look like, I mean? Ideally?”

“In the future or right now?”

“Right now?”

“Me, you, and a few of our friends crammed into someone’s apartment. A roast duck. My mum makes the best roast duck. Peas. I love peas. All the other staple Christmas foods. Lots of dessert. And I don’t know— we eat and watch movies and sing Christmas songs until midnight.”

“Charming. And in the future?”

“Same, but me and you are married with six kids.”

Louis sputters, a few drops of beer landing on his chin. Harry chuckles on the other end of the line, obviously pleased with himself.

“That’s a joke,” he says.

“Obviously,” Louis says, heading to his room, immediately powering up the heater when he arrives. “We’re having two kids at most.”

“Four, at _ least _. But we’ll keep working on it.”

“You’re mad,” Louis says. He collapses on his bed. It’s as if his head hitting the pillow dislodges a thought he’d forgotten until now, propelling it from his mouth. “Also you have fans!”

“What?”

“I found your YouTube series, you arsehole. And I didn’t Google you before you accuse me. You showed up in my suggestions. Harry— you have thousands of subscribers. You have fans!”

“Think the algorithm is fucked. We made those videos in Year 10. Haven’t posted a new one in nearly a decade.”

“Yeah but they’re still popular, that’s the point.” And Louis gets why. He has watched every episode of Tyler and Harry’s fifteen episode series entitled, Amateur Gourmet. Has watched them recreate household meals, particularly ones that teenagers across the world have been forced to eat _ad nauseam_, with jokes and trivia on the side. What they do with food is clever, but it’s their personalities sounding off together that is most compelling. Tyler is sensible and sarcastic. Harry simultaneously tries to be endearing at every turn and doesn’t have to try at all. 

“Everyone in the comments was, and still is, obsessed with you,” Louis says, not mentioning the slew of commenters obsessed with him and Tyler, _ together _.

“Then I’m disappointed you weren’t watching my series a decade ago.”

“I’m disappointed you didn’t meet me and tell me about your series a decade ago. I’m also disappointed you didn’t just tell me about it now,” Louis says.

With much restraint, he has obeyed Harry’s unwritten Google mandate. He hasn’t shown off Harry’s Wikipedia page to Sandra, as tempting as it is. He hasn’t read or watched anything beyond this Youtube series that dropped into his lap. That said, Harry could have won some prestigious award last week or been booked on some show and Louis might not necessarily know about it. Because Harry isn’t as forthcoming about these things as he should be. The fact is he’s popular within his circuit, and without, but it’s easy for Louis to forget with how little he knows.

“I’m genuinely interested in this stuff,” Louis says. “And you make it a point not to tell me. It’s fucked, it really is.”

“This doesn’t really count, does it? It was a gag.”

“It counts,” Louis says adamantly.

“Well I also wrote recipes for my school’s newspaper. Should I not have kept that from you either?”

“No, you should not have kept that from me. Do you have a copy of these recipes?”

“My mum keeps everything. But I think it’s only fair that I get to watch your first audition tape. _ And _ read the play you wrote in uni.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Then we have no deal.”

Louis refuses to relent right away, but he might later. He hasn’t decided yet. “I’ve got another question.”

“We’ve run out of time for questions, I’m sorry.”

Louis ignores him. “You and Tyler?”

“Wait, hang on,” Harry says, and then in a softer voice, “Hey, Banana. What are you doing up? No, I’m not talking to Santa. Just a friend.”

“_ Just _ a friend,” Louis repeats. “I’m shit compared to Santa, is that it?”

“Shush,” Harry says into the line. “No, not you, love. Do you want me to wake your mum? How about some tea and then back to bed, yeah?”

Louis puts his phone on speaker and changes. He brushes his teeth, listening to Harry entertain Hannah, his niece, who he only ever calls Banana. He makes her a cup of tea and takes her back to bed, his phone of his person the whole time so that Louis hears it all. And then he returns to the phone with a sigh. “Hi. Sorry, what were you saying?”

Louis doesn’t immediately remember. He sits upright in bed to ward off sleep and get his brain going again. “I get that you and Tyler are best mates, _ but _—”

“But?” Harry asks when Louis stalls for too long.

“I think I spied a little Harry with a little crush in those videos. So, now I’ve got to ask. Did you or did you not fancy him at any point, past or present?”

“Ah,” Harry says. “Do you want to FaceTime?”

Louis glances at himself in the mirror above his dresser. “Sure,” he decides. 

So, they switch their call to FaceTime. Louis fluffs his pillows up behind his back. Harry appears on the screen, wearing a patterned jumper, a snapback, and a smile. He‘s unnervingly cute. It’s not that Louis forgot but it’s been days since he’s last seen him.

“Where are you right now?” Louis asks.

“Library. I’d get in bed but the walls are thin.”

“Poor teenage Harry.”

Harry laughs. “Fuck, I know,” he says. “Definitely no present feelings for Tyler, by the way. That’d be a terrible idea, business-wise. _ And _ he’s engaged and he has a kid. But I did fancy him back then. On and off from year 10 until our first year of uni.”

“And he didn’t reciprocate?”

“I don’t know. He let me kiss him once,” Harry says. “We were high. And I’d just come out to him. And he said ‘that’s cool’ which I think I misunderstood because I kissed him. I don’t know if he kissed me back. When I said sorry the next day, he said he didn’t mind. Also confusing. But I think the short answer is no, he didn’t reciprocate. I think once we started to get serious about the restaurant and I started dating people in London or in Tokyo, it just sort of petered out. He was the first boy who was accessible, who I thought was cute and funny. And then when we left home, there were boys everywhere.”

“You make it sound too easy.”

“It seemed really easy back then. I got to the city and thought, ‘So. Much. Dick…’”

Louis outright cackles. “Christ.”

“There’s dick everywhere,” Harry continues, in the awestruck tone of his younger self, his eyes wide.

“You haven’t had it so easy since moving here, though, have you? That’s the harsh reality of things. There’s no dick here.”

“I’m practising celibacy from now until you and I are married anyway,” Harry says. “It’s fine.”

“Right, of course,” Louis says. A gray cat hops up onto the back of the couch behind Harry and then into his lap and he immediately gives her the attention she’s requesting. “Nice sight to fall asleep to.”

Harry scoops the cat up into his arms, cradling her like a baby. “I don’t mind if you fall asleep,” he says. “You should open your gift first, though.”

“Hold, please.” Louis collects the package from the other side of the bed. He turns his bedside lamp on and sits upright, propping his phone up against his pillow. Opening the package, he finds whatever’s inside has been wrapped in gift wrap. He shoots Harry a look as he rips the paper free. “Made this extra difficult for me.”

“I just love gift wrapping.”

When all the paper is gone, Louis holds a black leather jacket. Soft buttery leather. Fringe across the chest and back. “Oh, shit,” Louis says, climbing off the bed, so he can quickly pull it on. “Check me out.”

“You love Grease and you’ve played Danny Zuko, and yet you didn’t have a leather jacket of your own. It wasn’t right.”

“You didn’t spend too much on it, though, did you?” Louis asks, suspiciously.

“Not too much, no,” Harry says, but Louis doesn’t believe him.

“Thanks, love,” Louis says. “Promise to wear it the first day you’re back. And then every day after.” He crawls into bed again, still wearing the jacket because it’s comfy enough. “Also— I will figure out where I saved my musical from uni. You can read it if I find it. Ask me about the audition video when I’m drunk.”

Harry smiles. “I’ll ask my mum about the recipes.”

“Good,” Louis says. His eyelids are so heavy. He’d talk to Harry all night but his body isn’t having it. “When are you back again?”

“Leaving the morning after Christmas. One more day.”

It’s the last thing Louis remembers hearing before he wakes hours later, still in his leather jacket, with his dead phone lying on his pillow. One more day.

+

Louis is despondent all Saturday morning. It’s raining and he’s alone and the days between Christmas and New Year’s feel like a minor purgatory. Nothing to do. Nothing to see. It’s why he decides to finally rewatch Anne’s episode of Chef’s Table. The first time he watched it was five years ago, well before he knew Harry. He recalls liking Anne — and adding Augustine to the list of restaurants to visit when he became rich and famous — but not much else.

Towards the end of the episode, that saccharine sense of longing in Louis’ chest intensifies. Anne is filmed in her home kitchen and Harry is with her. Harry, who Louis would have seen in this episode years ago, but doesn’t recall until this very moment. He’s less broad, although it might just seem that way with the baggy Henley he’s wearing. His hair is at a rebellious length Louis has only seen in vintage Instagram photos. Anne probably suggested a trim prior to filming. He clearly refused.

In the clip, he’s leaning against the counter with his arms folded and his mum is teasing him. Even though the dialogue is inaudible, Louis knows because he’s making the same face he makes when Louis teases him. A frown fighting a smile. One dimple out already. And right on cue: an eye roll. Anne laughs and draws him into a hug.

The camera cuts back to Anne. Talking head shot. Behind her are the gold walls of Augustine’s London location. A fountain shimmering in stray light beside her.

“Whenever I begin to cook, I summon a mood. It’s how I want people to feel when they’re eating. And the food takes on the mood. If it’s nostalgia, the combination of flavours will make you nostalgic. And if the mood is bittersweet, that’s how you’ll feel. With these dishes that were inspired by my children, there are many moods involved but I want you to feel happiness and love and light. So we have fresh, airy dishes. My son, Harry, loves the outdoors. And he loved to garden with me when he was young. And so those were all the things I was thinking of when I began Petit Jardin. I thought of the earth. I thought of fruit and of colour. But happiness more than anything.”

And then there is a clip of him and Anne in their garden. They’re both wearing white button-up shirts with sleeves rolled, Harry in faded denim shorts and Anne in flowy teal trousers. He puts his arm around her waist and lets his head fall against her shoulder.

“Life is feeling,” Anne says in a voice-over. “And food is life. And what is art if it doesn’t reflect the complexity and the beauty of life?”

+

Harry comes sauntering up to Zayn’s building, wearing his massive puffy coat and a knit hat and scarf. Louis tosses his cigarette to the ground, stubs it with his shoe, and shoves his hands into his pockets, bouncing to ward off the cold.

“Hey,” Harry says, slowing to a full stop, breaking into a stupid grin. He glances at the cigarette on the ground. “Thought you quit.”

Louis shrugs. “It’s cold.” Not that that has anything to do with anything. He did quit. Halfway through his tenure as a school teacher, although he still has a cigarette when the occasion calls. Tonight he needed an excuse to step outside and stall until Harry showed up.

“You’re late,” Louis says, in lieu of ‘I’m so relieved to see you’.

“You can’t be late to a New Year’s party if it’s not midnight,” Harry says, the two of them starting the climb to Zayn’s apartment on the fifth floor.

“I don’t know how he knows all these people, by the way,” Louis says. “I know ten at most.”

Every year Zayn’s New Year’s party gains another ten strangers. His apartment which he’s occupied for six years is the only one in the building with access to the roof and it makes for a great party venue. All manner of parties have been thrown here, but New Year’s Eve with a view of fireworks happening across Brooklyn is the best of them.

They shrug their coats off in the hallway and convene in the kitchen where Louis gets Harry a beer.

“Cheers,” he says. They tap their bottles together.

“Where’s Zayn?” Harry asks.

“Smoking somewhere probably,” Louis says. He lost track of him when he went downstairs to ‘smoke’ himself. They make an attempt to find Zayn now, but get caught in the living room where the few partygoers Louis knows beckon them over. At first, they’re all chatting about the party last year, when some famous DJ showed up and no one left until the following afternoon. Harry fetches him another beer and when he returns, the conversation has diverged. Now, Louis and a girl named Diana are chatting about a mutual friend of theirs. And Harry starts talking to a drunk guy or — bless his heart — listening to the drunk guy talk.

The distance between them grows naturally and steadily. They bounce from one conversation to another. The apartment isn’t large per se, but it’s crowded. Louis puts his head down for one second, watching a video on Diana’s phone of an upcoming production she says he’ll like, and when he looks up a minute later, he doesn’t see Harry nearby.

Diana begins a debate with someone else about a show she saw just last week, one that Louis hasn’t seen, doesn’t know about, and can’t speak on.

“Hey, Louis?”

When the man approaches, Louis has just decided to go looking for Harry. Now, he stops and starts scrambling through faces and names in his head, trying to place him to no avail. “Hi. Sorry, I don’t—”

“We haven’t met. I never got a chance to say hi at Zayn’s birthday party last year. I recognized you from his Instagram.”

“Now I’m worried about what you’ve seen,” Louis says.

“Someone who likes to have fun?” He shrugs. “I’m Adrian.”

Louis shakes his hand. “Nice to finally meet me, yeah?”

“Exactly what I was going to say. Did you come with someone?” Adrian asks, catching Louis as he glances across the room again.

“No. Not really,” Louis says. “Trying to check on a friend, but he’s probably fine.”

And Harry is an adult boy who doesn’t need to be looked after.

“Want to grab another drink then?”

“Sure,” Louis says. Adrian is obviously interested in him. To what end isn’t as clear. He seems too timid to make a move right away, but who knows what he’s like with more alcohol? Louis isn’t timid, but he also _ isn’t _ the type. Shagging unfamiliar albeit attractive men lost its appeal at some point in his twenties. Mostly because he never liked the blokes as much in the morning.

Whatever Adrian is up to, it’s Harry who Louis’ mind keeps wandering to like a phantom limb. He keeps picturing him sitting in a corner by himself, strangers drifting away from him, getting bored because they don’t understand his humour like Louis does and aren’t as entertained by his existing the way Louis is. And yes, it’s highly improbable given Harry’s rampant levels of charisma, but after several minutes of Adrian wanging on, Louis excuses himself to the loo anyway.

In the living room, he finally spots Harry sitting on the window sill, sharing a joint with three random individuals. He seems to be getting along fine. More than fine. Louis feels ridiculous. He goes to the loo but doesn’t need to use it. He stands in the mirror for a long time, massaging the frown line between his brows, washing his hands, then testing out the body spray Zayn’s keeps on a shelf above the toilet. He hates it. Has to wash his hands again. Then he returns to the party, feeling slightly less erratic.

“You’re just in time,” Adrian says. “I think everyone is heading up to the roof.”

“Let me grab my coat, then,” Louis says.

He follows Adrian into the hallway and up the stairs to the roof, stalling as he goes because again, he doesn’t see Harry in front of or behind him and doesn’t want him to miss the fireworks. It doesn’t occur to him that Harry might already be on the roof, which he is. Wearing his puffy coat and his knit hat again, his nose and cheekbones ruddy. He scans the roof and immediately sees Louis and smiles.

Louis smiles back. He wants to go over to him but he stays put, directing his gaze towards the skyline. He feels like he has something to prove, in light of the last half-hour he’s spent mentally fixed to Harry. And isn’t it enough that they’re on the same roof, ringing in the New Year a few feet apart?

“Ten!” Zayn’s voice rings out the loudest, and everyone starts counting down.

Beside him, Adrian shoots him a smile. He’ll probably try to kiss him. Louis will probably let him. 

“Seven. Six. Five.”

Louis glances the other way again and doesn’t see Harry for an alarming second. At three, Harry steps right up beside him. “Hey,” he says.

Two.

Louis laughs at himself. “Hey.”

At one, Harry leans in and kisses Louis on the mouth. Just for a second. Around them, everyone is screaming, but Harry says, “Happy New Year” for Louis to hear.

A noisemaker blares. Confetti rains down from some unknown source. Their gazes linger until Zayn throws his arms over their shoulders and the diaphanous bubble that had formed around them, glowing in the light of distant fireworks, dissolves. The music resumes. Champagne glasses are refilled. 

He’s kissed Harry before (although he was drunk and it had seemed like a perfectly rational thing to do). He’s kissed Zayn on New Year’s before too. He’s kissed people on New Year’s that he’s never seen again.

He doesn’t know what to make of this or if he should make anything of it at all.

And at the end of the night, when they’re drunk and collapsed in Louis’ bed, it’s a distant, hazy thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading/commenting, etc! v excited for the next chp!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> btw, 'anne augustine' is vaguely inspired by dominique crenn, a (very cool) chef featured on chef's table. also, i have a working [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7sbOyjv7LohNysEMMLWeYp) now! 'on the low' by tove stykre is way too literal but w/e. i'm always open to suggestions.

There's a honk of a car horn and Louis tilts his head back to see past the brim of his baseball cap. Harry waves sheepishly from the front seat of an SUV he borrowed from Nico, one of the cooks at Augustine. Louis stands up from the curb very slowly, dusting off his jeans, shoving his mobile into his pocket, before he pushes the IKEA trolley over to the boot of the car. Harry hops out and joins him.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Louis says. “I would have resold all your stuff if you took any longer.”

“Why would anyone buy resold IKEA furniture outside of IKEA?” Harry asks.

“Discounts, Harry. See this Hemnes bookshelf you bought for $149? I’d sell it for $100.”

“What about the biscuits I bought you?”

“I’d keep those obviously. Did you get lost or what? Why’d it take you an hour just to bring the car around?”

“It wasn’t an _ hour _. There was an old couple stopped behind me. They had me blocked in and I didn’t have the heart to honk on them.”

Louis accepts this as a valid excuse. But he doesn’t actually care. He’s perfectly happy to be spending his Saturday shopping for apartment furniture and plants with Harry. His stomach is full on Swedish meatballs and he’s got nowhere else to be. And like all occasions involving Harry, browsing IKEA is no less entertaining. Adding things to the trolley that Harry didn’t need, including a print of a pug with a banana in its mouth and a rainbow LED light strip, never got old. Even the image of Harry sequestered by an elderly couple in the car park is amusing.

They employ some Tetris-style maneuvering to fit everything into the boot. 

“I think I should run back in and get us ice cream for the road,” Louis says.

“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Harry says.

“Neither do I.”

It’s probably warmer than it should be in April and most of the time, that’s worrisome. But post-IKEA, it’s a warrant for two cones of soft serve. Louis has to hold Harry’s ice cream until he successfully makes it out of the car park. And then he cranks the radio and they’re on their way back to Williamsburg.

Harry finally settled on a loft that’s skipping distance from Yuzu. The large open kitchen was its primary selling point. Quartz countertops. New appliances. All the glass windows are an added bonus, giving the space a greenhouse effect that Stevie would likely appreciate, especially absent Claire’s balcony.

“I think when it gets even warmer, we should go to Rockaway Beach,” Harry says randomly. “That’s where everyone goes in the summer, isn’t it?”

“Like half of the city, yeah. But it’s fun. We’ll go,” Louis says. “Steve could drive us.”

He has a little energy-efficient vehicle that wasn’t helpful at all when it came to apartment shopping. But it’s perfect for day trips.

“Or me and you could just take the train,” Harry says.

Louis looks at him. “You don’t want Steve to come?”

“No, I like Steve,” Harry says, quickly. “Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” Harry says, laughing. “Everyone can come to the beach. We’ll rent a whole party bus and bring everyone. All your coworkers. All your friends.”

“Wanker.”

“Dickhead,” Harry says.

Louis plucks him in his cheek.

“Ow. I’m _ driving.” _

+

There was another apartment. With a balcony. But Harry missed out on it because there was no time to pack and move on top of readying the restaurant for its grand opening. That’s in less than two weeks. There are finishing touches left to be made. Painting. Tiling the floors in the washrooms. It’s nothing Harry has to be onsite for. Which means plenty of time devoted to parsing IKEA bookshelves and tables together. 

Harry turns a sheet of instructions over. “I think they’re missing a page.”

Louis, who has already constructed a table on his own, takes the instructions from him. “They’re never missing a page,” he says, scooting closer to him. He peruses all the parts still left in Harry’s console table. “You’re on the right track. That long piece goes there.”

Harry peeks over his shoulder. “I don’t think so.”

Louis turns the paper so that the direction of the drawing matches what Harry has on the floor. “This here,” he says, pointing, “is that there. Long piece here.”

Harry wordlessly reaches for the long beam on the ground and affixes it to the rest of the console. Louis gets the next part ready for him and together, they finish quickly. They set the console against the far wall, the TV on top of it, and plop down on the floor to admire their work. The couch is due for delivery tomorrow. There are still some prints to hang. And the bed is on the floor because they haven't put the frame together yet. But they've also silently agreed to take a break.

“Thanks for helping me out today,” Harry says, lying on his back beside Louis, spreading himself out. His white T-shirt rides up a bit, exposing a lovely sliver of his stomach, a trail of gilded hair. 

“Happy to,” Louis says, looking away from him. “Also I like your place.”

“Thanks. Think it's coming together, yeah?” Harry asks, and when Louis doesn't answer, he looks at him. “What?”

“So,” Louis says, “I know next week is opening week and you're focused on that, as you should be. And it’s all very exciting, but there’s another really exciting thing I need to tell you.”

“Okay,” Harry says, pushing himself upright.

“I got a callback. Me and this other lad. But I feel pretty confident about my odds.”

“Wait, what?” Harry looks at him, eyes wide. “_ Louis _.”

Louis starts to laugh. At Harry’s ridiculous expression most of all. But he also feels giddy. And when Harry lunges at him and hugs him, it only gets worse. He laughs until he can’t breathe.

“You sat here with me building IKEA furniture when we could have been celebrating this!”

Lying in a semi-comfortable puddle on the floor, Louis says, “I mean, we have to build the furniture.”

“_ Louis _,” Harry says again.

And the emphasis on his name — the affection tucked away between the _ Lou _ and _ is _ — combined with the sunlight striking Harry’s eyes at just the right angle robs Louis of his sarcasm and his wit. So that when he responds, it’s an embarrassingly soft, but pointed, “Harry.”

“I’m going to make you a drink,” Harry says, clambering up off the floor. “And we’re going to celebrate. And you’re going to tell me everything.”

He blends up frozen margaritas with two bottles of Corona poured inside. (They’ve also silently agreed to abandon all further IKEA projects in favor of getting fucked up.) He brings out the chips and salsa too since their meatball lunch has mostly worn off.

“This is for The World Below, yeah?” Harry asks. “You auditioned for the part of Young Hades?”

“Yeah, but they want me for Hermes. Bigger part. Better songs. It’s crazy.”

“And you feel good about it?”

“I do, yeah. I feel really good. Nothing is guaranteed, but it’s not just me. Everyone at the agency feels really good about it too. I’ve set myself up for disappointment before, but I don’t know. This feels different.”

Harry just beams at him, his arms crossed over his chest. Like he has to hug himself or else he’ll attack-hug Louis again. “When do you have to go back?”

“Tomorrow, actually.”

“Wait,” Harry says. “You shouldn’t be drinking then. Definitely not that.”

Louis slides his Coronarita out of Harry’s reach. “I can drink this one.” 

+

He and Zayn give their names at the door and are welcomed inside. Yuzu is dimly lit and glamorously outfitted. With its custom furnishings and eye-catching light fixtures and with its guests, fashionably dressed and bearing that notorious but subtle gloss of New York’s elite. They aren’t the investment bankers or financial analysts that might frequent Augustine. They’re primarily young, eager creatives or at least, that’s how they look.

At the bar, Louis recognizes Niall, one of the hosts at Augustine and a close new friend of Harry’s. With him are Clemena and Penny, another of Zayn’s coworkers. It’s a packed house. All the tables are full. All the seats are taken, save two. One for Zayn and one for Louis.

“Harry says this one is for you,” Niall says, patting the chair beside himself in the corner of the bar. It might just be the best seat in the place.

“Does he look nervous?” Louis asks Niall.

And just as he does, Harry steps out of the kitchen looking happier than ever. He’s dressed in his black button-up and black trousers. A yellow gingham apron around his waist. He approaches the other side of the bar to shake the hand of a woman seated there. And there's Tyler, stood beside him, wearing the same getup. He's taking a gander of the room and notices Louis just as Louis notices him. They share a weird and paradoxical exchange of eye contact; Neither of them looking away, because looking away equates to defeat and simultaneously, might seem rude.

Tyler nudges Harry and nods impassively in Louis' direction. Harry looks down the bar, confused at first before he sees Louis. He immediately starts his way over to them, having to stop at least once to greet someone else. He wiggles past one of the bartenders and then, he's in front of Louis, radiating an unquantifiable degree of joy.

“You made it.”

“Good thing I did," Louis says. "Had a seat reserved for me."

“Obviously,” Harry says. His gaze drifts downward. “Have you worn that before?”

Louis doesn’t have to look. He started thinking about what he would wear tonight a few days prior and decided nothing he owned was quite right. In the end, he purchased the maroon top he wears now, which doesn’t have much going for it except for how low the neck is, allowing for a nice view of his tattoo and chest hair and such.

“It’s new,” Louis says.

“You got dressed up for me?”

“For the occasion,” Louis corrects.

“I _ am _ the occasion.”

“Fuck, I’ve already had enough of you and the night’s just started,” Louis says, which makes Harry grin like an idiot. Clemena wiggles her fingers to get Harry’s attention and he finally notices that she and Zayn and Penny have arrived too. He greets everyone and then regretfully has to get back. Louis can sense his exhilaration. There’s a hurriedness in his speech and in his step that has fully taken effect on Louis by the time Harry disappears into the kitchen. Louis, as well, is exhilarated. He’s ready for these dishes Harry has only vaguely alluded to over the past year. He’s ready to see Harry perform and shine as he’s guaranteed to. He orders a drink and settles in for what will be a radiant night.

First comes sake-steamed clams served with a yuzu butter sauce. Great start. Delicious, of course. The only offense is that there are only three on Louis’ plate. Next is a baked pumpkin soup with uni that arrives in a small pumpkin. Harry and Tyler briefly reappear from the kitchen to make their rounds. There’s a faint flush to Harry’s cheeks, but he seems happy. As he should.

There’s a wait before the next course, in which they all start chatting and catching up with one another.

Zayn isn’t having as good of a time as everyone else, but he’s always behaved like a stunted puppy wherever Clemena is involved. In her billowy red dress, Clemena could be a model if she really wanted. She’s brown-skinned with the kind of complexion that says she’s never known a pimple. She’s tall and graceful and pretty, and Louis gets why Zayn has pined over her all these months. Because Zayn is admittedly vain.

But she’s also funny, which matters less when she has the kind of laugh that makes other people laugh. Louis liked her the first time he met her years ago. He’s always had a great time when she’s around. And that night is unlikely to be different.

Until she asks, “How long have you and Harry been together?”

Niall, Penny, and Zayn all zero in on Louis. Suddenly the lights in the restaurant seem too bright. It’s not that Louis minds answering, but he’s thrown off by their instant and undivided attention.

“We’re just friends, actually,” he says. “Just really good friends.”

Clemena takes a sip of her drink while shooting a glance at Penny. Louis looks at Penny who looks at Niall who looks at Zayn who looks at Clemena who looks at Louis.

“Does Harry know that?” Clemena finally asks.

Louis arches his brows high. “Fuck does that mean?” he asks, as jovially as he can manage.

And now no one is looking at him and he feels like he’s just made a tasteless joke, confessed to some egregious childhood crime or shared a highly unpopular opinion. Mood-killers, all of them. Which is what he’s just done. He’s gone and killed the mood. 

Clemena looks as though she has more to say but then their third dish arrives. “Smothered tonkatsu in a fuyu fuji cream sauce,” their waitress says, which sounds enticing, but Louis’ attention is diverted. He cleans his plate and responds with vague laughter to whatever story Zayn starts telling the group. But all he can really think about is Clemena’s question.

In truth, Louis loves his little corner at the bar. He’s elevated there with a prime view of the whole house, close to the kitchen, close to where Harry periodically appears. And whenever Harry appears, Louis loves that in spite of the commotion, his gaze still finds Louis. Every time. In complete and total truth, he loves Harry’s gaze. He loves his attention. And he’s never had to question how much of it he gets until now.

At their sixth course — miso cod over black soba with fig and pistou all served in a deep woven dish — Harry approaches the bar, all smiles as usual. “How’s it going over here?” he asks them all, but he’s mostly looking at Louis.

“It’s really great,” Louis says, a bit robotically. He has a sip of his drink and adamantly avoids eye contact with anyone else.

“What’s up next, Chef?” Niall asks.

“And what should we be looking forward to for dessert?” Clemena adds.

“I can’t answer either of those questions,” Harry says. “But dessert is the best course of the night.”

“I’d take more of the curried wagyu, to be honest,” Niall says. And they all agree. They all have a dish they’d like more of. Or maybe another round of the entire menu, Niall suggests. Harry is so palpably chuffed, he can’t stop smiling.

“Your drink’s low,” he says randomly to Louis. “I’ll get you another. Same thing?”

“Sure, thanks.”

Minutes after he’s gone, Sophie, one of the bartenders, serves Louis another cocktail with a wink.

“Thanks for taking care of us,” Louis says to her. Because he feels like he should, knowing that she’s paid them so much special attention as Harry’s friends.

“No need to thank me,” Sophie says. “Whenever my husband dropped in at Augustine, Harry showed him the works. You order whatever you want. I don’t mind.”

Louis’ paranoia spikes again. Did she reference her husband to draw a comparison to his relationship with Harry? Or did the specification mean nothing? Either way, Louis is beginning to feel like the target of a hidden camera show. Did everyone know that he was dating Harry except him?

He zones out, watching his friends chat, watching Sophie and the other bartender maneuvering around each other. For dessert, they have a yuzu Breton butter cake topped with whiskey whipped cream and fresh berries, and Harry returns to hand deliver Louis’ dish. The sight of him both relieves Louis and perplexes him. Everyone sees him do it. Because it’s Harry’s night and the attention is on him. But Louis’ attention is _ always _ on Harry, he realizes. Every night of the week.

And yeah, maybe that’s due for some examination.

There’s a drinks reception afterwards. Harry and Tyler are briefly interviewed and profusely congratulated. It takes another hour after the restaurant empties for them to clean up. It’s one a.m. when the staff decides which bar they’re headed to for their after party.

Louis catches a glimpse of Tyler, returning from the lounge where he’s changed his clothes, and it dawns on him that Tyler probably doesn’t like him because he senses that Louis is fucking obtuse.

The light goes off in the kitchen. Niall runs to the loo while Zayn, Clemena and Penny head outside to smoke. Louis lingers by the bar until Harry steps out of the lounge, still in his trousers but wearing a vintage Britney Spears T-shirt and Converse.

“Ready to go?” he asks.

“I think I might head home, actually,” Louis says.

Harry’s smile dissipates instantly. “Seriously?”

He’s so obviously and painfully disappointed, Louis wants to take it back right away. “Tonight was really, really great. The food was fucking incredible. And I promise I’ll have a full review ready for you by tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Harry says, and then, he whines. “Don’t go home. The bar is just down the street. The drinks are _ free _.”

“I don’t know, mate.”

“_ Louis _,” Harry says. His brows crease. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Louis says. Not because he doesn’t want to say. He _ will _ say. Except it seems wrong to do it tonight. Tomorrow or the next day, they’ll have lunch. First, he’ll sing Yuzu’s praises, and then he’ll contend with whatever it is they’ve had going on for the past eight months.

“We’re leaving!” someone calls, poking their head in through the front door. Behind Harry, a girl hurriedly applies her lipstick and sticks a cigarette in her mouth. On her way to the door, she bumps her hip against Harry’s. “It’s party time, bitch,” she mumbles. 

“That’s Gillian,” Harry says to Louis. “She’s drunk and very insistent. As am I. Do you really want to leave right before party time?”

“It’s 2 am,” Louis says.

“No,” Harry says, taking a step closer. He sets his warm hands on Louis’ shoulders. “It’s party time.”

It’s so annoying when Louis is frustrated and someone makes him laugh. He laughs right then, much to his chagrin. Harry’s smile is back in full force, both dimples, effective as always. And Louis gets that he has to go if he wants the smile to stay.

“Alright,” Louis sighs with a long roll of his eyes. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, let’s go,” Louis says. “It’s party time, bitch.”

Harry laughs and tosses an arm over his shoulders, dragging him along. They all tumble out of the restaurant a second later. There’s a slight chill in the air and Louis tells himself that’s why he leans into Harry the way he does, looping an arm around his waist. It’s one of those quintessential nights — one, in which, he is happy to be alive and nothing else. Content to draw breath and nothing more. One of those nights that make even the simplest things — like Harry’s peal of laughter disrupting the din of traffic — seem exponentially gratifying. He feels high on life so long as he doesn’t think about how fucking complicated life can be. 

“Louis.”

He zones out between the pavement and bouncer and has to hurry to fish his I.D. out of his pocket. Inside, someone in their group has held two tables in a dark corner, which is where they all head. There are shots waiting for them all. Harry takes one and hands one to Louis.

“To Yuzu,” he says. A rowdy cheer goes up and they all throw them back.

Harry sets his hand on Louis’ waist. “Let’s get drinks.”

There are three bartenders and all of them are zipping around, not quite looking at anyone it seems. Harry is a little too polite to lure them closer. Louis leans forward on the counter and wiggles his fingers and stares them all down until he’s spotted.

“My hero,” Harry says to Louis when the bartender departs with their order.

Louis smiles, still tense, but he’s starting to loosen up. That is, until he sees Zayn and Clemena and fixes his attention to them. They’re talking, but not quite looking at each other. When Zayn does look at her, it’s only when Clemena has looked away. And when Clemena looks at him, it’s only when she’s pretending to look around the club.

“They’re a fucking mess, Z and Clem,” Louis says to Harry. “Too much unresolved shit between them.”

Harry glances at them. “They just need another drink. Or two,” he says. He starts ruminating about ordering more shots, and if he does, should he go with tequila or vodka? Louis isn’t really listening.

“We’re not like them, right?” he asks. Out loud.

“_ Huh _?”

Harry looks so confused, Louis could probably backtrack if he wanted to. He doesn’t. “Like there’s nothing unresolved here, right?” he asks, gesturing between them. “‘Cause everyone thinks we’re shagging except us, it seems.”

“Huh,” Harry says, again. He looks down the bar like something has caught his attention. Louis turns and looks as well but there’s nothing there. He leans in front of Harry so that he’s directly in his line of sight.

“Right?” he repeats, brows arched.

Harry’s eyes dart to Louis’ mouth. “Can we talk about it tomorrow?”

“Talk about _ what _?”

The bartender returns with their drinks before Louis can press the issue. Harry asks for help carrying everything and with an irritated huff, Louis complies. He pretends Harry isn’t there for a while afterwards. He’s annoyed and he wants him to know it. Also, if he looks at him, he’ll feel bad for being mean. The fact that Tyler is hovering around without saying hi only irritates Louis further. Louis certainly won’t be the one to say hi first.

The shot kicks in and miraculously, Louis starts to feel loose enough to dance, even though he doesn’t want to dance. Clemena is all too ready. She moves with him, hands in the air, hips shaking. They’re not drunk, per se, but they dance like they are. Both serenading Niall or hyping the DJ who definitely can’t hear any of them.

When Louis does spot Harry again, he’s a few feet away huddled with his coworkers. Gillian is in his arms, attempting a lesser salsa with him. And, as always, Louis can’t take his eyes off of him.

He’s dancing with Clemena but watching Harry.

Harry is dancing with the waitress and a second later, he’s watching Louis too.

Neither of them looks away.

The song changes. It’s as good a cue as any. Louis slides away from Clemena and approaches Harry who immediately loosens his hold on his dance partner.

“Sorry to interrupt, love,” Louis says to Gillian, taking Harry by the elbow and drawing him into a spot in the corner that’s all theirs.

Harry’s smile is small, cautious. He leans in. “Are you mad at me?” he asks, loud enough to be heard.

Louis shakes his head. “Let’s dance.”

He sets both hands on Harry’s waist. They smile at one another. Slowly, Louis coaxes them to move, side-to-side to the beat. He coaxes the awkwardness away. They spin each other and turn in each other’s arms, Louis grinding on Harry, Harry grinding on him, for which Louis rewards him with a slap on his bum. Soon enough, they’re laughing and singing obnoxiously loud. And for a while, things are as usual.

When the music changes again, it’s not a particularly slow song, but it’s one that matters. He can’t even remember the name of it, but he remembers Harry singing it to him in the kitchen. When he looked really good and Louis was fully in lust with him. They have their arms around each other like it’s the apex of a grade school dance and the awareness just shifts. Simple as that. The tension is back, even as they move loosely. Their thighs slot together and Harry’s hands hover at the base of Louis’ spine.

He’s positive it’s never felt quite like this before. But then Harry’s mouth brushes his shoulder where his shirt has slipped down and it’s hard to believe he never saw it coming — his nerve endings lighting up, his breath catching, full-body shiver.

Louis leans away so he can look at him. And when he looks at him, he has to kiss him.

Distantly, he thinks he hears Clemena yell, “Oh, shit” when his lips meet Harry’s. But then, Clemena fades out. Everything slows and blurs into the gyrating technicolour backdrop of this moment. Either the shots hit Louis too hard or sometimes it really does happen like in the movies. Sometimes nearly a year’s worth of unacknowledged sexual tension reaches its zenith on a dance floor at 4 AM. And sometimes absurdly beautiful boys are also absurdly brilliant kissers. 

Harry is a brilliant kisser. Louis knows because he forgets himself. He forgets to think and he doesn’t have to. Harry slides his hands up Louis’ neck and cups his face and slips his tongue into his mouth like they’ve done this a hundred times before. And Louis has to wonder why the hell they haven’t.

It’s the kind of kiss that might get him out of his clothes if they were in the right place, but they aren’t. And the next time their lips part, Harry has the same idea because he takes Louis’ hand and leads him out of the club.

Back on the pavement, air rushes into his lungs, cooling everything down.

“Sorry, it’s loud in there,” Harry says, stupidly. “Do you want to go?”

“Yeah,” Louis says. Like Harry, he’s trying to catch his breath. Unlike Harry, he’s sobering up too quickly. “What are we doing?”

“My place is closer,” Harry says. He starts scanning the street for a cab. “So we should go there.”

“Yeah, but, what are we doing?”

Harry stops looking down the street and looks at Louis instead. He seems to deflate then. A second of silence passes. He pushes his hands through his hair. “I want to take you home with me. I’ve been wanting to take you home since I met you. And I have, only nothing’s happened, and I _ want _ something to happen. Between us. Me and you, I want that.”

Louis props his hands on his hips. “Well, why didn’t you say that before?”

“Why didn’t _ you _? Why did you kiss me just now if you haven’t been thinking the same thing?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Louis says. “I asked first.”

“I tried, at least once before. But I also thought it was obvious. Or I thought we’d get here eventually,” Harry says. “And now we have. Haven’t we?”

In his peripheral, Louis happens to spy a cab with its light on and doesn’t think before he hails it, just in time to catch the driver’s attention.

Nights spent in the same bed, curled together like question marks. Early morning texts and late-night phone calls. Hugs that lasted a second too long. Vague references to a near or distant future together. In some dusty corner of his mind, he knew what road they were on and where they would eventually arrive. And yeah, now they have.

The cab slides up to the curb. Louis pops the door open and looks at Harry, expectantly. “We’ll have to go to yours. Steve has his mum over.”

Harry hesitates.

“Chop, chop, Chef Styles,” Louis says, snapping his fingers.

“Very funny.”

They don’t snog in the car like animals because their appetite for PDA has apparently expired. They don’t talk either. Harry peers out the window at all the drunken sods still lingering on the streets. It’s so late. Louis doesn’t even want to think about how late it is. But New York never sleeps and Harry watches her dutifully and Louis watches him. He tries to think of something to say — something funny, preferably — but before he can, the ride is over.

“Do you want a drink?” Harry asks once they’re inside, pausing at the bar cart in the living room.

Louis plops down on the couch, pushing his shoes off. “What time is it?”

“Like 4 am, I think,” Harry says.

Louis can’t remember the last time he stayed up all night like this. And he’s surprised how tired he _ doesn’t _ feel. Like he’s too excited to be tired.

“Yeah, why not.”

Harry pours him whiskey on the rocks, which is how Louis knows he’s nervous. Usually he gets a bit fancy with it. Although to be fair, it’s nearly dawn.

Harry sits on his haunches in front of Louis instead of getting on the couch beside him. There’s nothing immediately sexual about it. Harry prefers to sit on the floor whenever and wherever he can. He has a perfectly good desk in his room and yet, he uses the chair to hold his clothes. That’s not to say he isn’t in the perfect position to give Louis a blow job. That’s also not to say Louis wouldn’t like one.

They look at each other with faint smiles. Harry laughs. “Is this awkward?”

“If you ask, you make it awkward,” Louis says. “You just need to relax.”

“I don’t think I want to,” Harry says, running his hands down his thighs. “I think it’s a little too easy to relax with you. I can do that no problem. Whenever I’m tense around you, it’s ‘cause I’m thinking about kissing you. Or fucking you, to be honest.”

Louis lifts his brows. “Someone’s drunk.”

“I’m not. Not really. I’m just saying,” Harry says. “The point is— I’m tense right now and I think I should try keeping it that way.”

“You were in such a hurry to get out there, didn’t say bye to anyone. Think Tyler will wonder where you ran off to?”

“I don’t really care.”

“You do look a little tense,” Louis says. He rests his foot on Harry’s thigh and then, after another sip of whiskey, on his crotch. “Very tense.”

Running his toe up the length of Harry’s cock, Louis is breath-taken by how hard he is, as aloof as he seems. Like he’s barely restraining himself. The thought makes Louis so hot and bothered all of sudden. He presses his toes into Harry’s erection.

Harry wraps his hand around Louis’ ankle. “Louis,” he begs.

Louis reaches his glass towards the end table blindly, just managing to set it down. “Hanging in there, love?” he asks, unbuckling his jeans. He sinks further into the couch and shoves a hand down his pants, giving himself a squeeze.

“Don’t make yourself come,” Harry says. “Please.”

“Do you want to make me come?”

Harry drags his hands down his face. “You’re fucking killing me.”

“How are you going to do it?” Louis asks, starting to jack himself. He groans, mostly for show. “How are you going to make me come?”

He’s absolutely asking for it and yet not expecting it when Harry cups him by the hips and tugs him to the edge of the couch. They get the same idea, both of them wrangling with Louis’ jeans until his cock is free. And then Harry leans in and licks the underside and Louis’ nerves are alight again. It all happens so fast — a relief and a knockout punch at once.

“Fuck yes,” Louis breathes, shoving his hand into Harry’s hair, getting a fistful to hold onto. Harry has Louis’ hips pinned to the couch and there’s nowhere for him to go and nowhere he’d want to be as divine as this. “Your fucking mouth.”

Harry looks up at him with a smile Louis has seen a hundred times over, but never like this. He licks his lips and lowers his gaze and doesn’t let up. His fucking _ mouth _.

“Been waiting ages for this, haven’t you?” Louis asks, because _ he _ has. Because his fantasies about Harry have been limitless and satisfactory until now. They don’t compare at all. He wasn’t prepared for this at all. Especially not for the way Harry gags and moans when Louis’ cock hits the back of his throat, the way he digs his fingers into Louis’ thighs, the way he urges Louis to thrust into his mouth.

It’s nearly 5 am in Brooklyn and Louis is fucking his best friend’s throat. Propping his foot up on the coffee table for leverage and thrusting until he’s breathless and his chest goes taut. He sinks to the couch before he comes in Harry’s mouth and spills on his fist.

Then Harry rests his head in Louis’ lap and starts stroking himself, eyes slipping shut. He’s close right from the start. Louis can hear it in his breath. He nudges Harry’s shoulder. “Show me,” he says. He’ll be damned if he misses any part of this.

Harry leans away from him, his hand slowing. He tilts his head back and comes. In the moonlight, the sweat on his skin is aglow. There aren’t words for a sight like him.

“Fucking gorgeous,” Louis says, but that doesn’t come close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was kind of racing to finish/post this part, but hopefully you couldn't tell. and maybe now i can take a time-out. i'll probably be incapacitated for a while anyway if h releases new tunes soon!
> 
> thank you for reading and commenting and leaving kudos!! :>


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you all had a happy holiday/fine line szn! :) ty for reading!
> 
> also i updated my [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7sbOyjv7LohNysEMMLWeYp). yay!

Without opening his eyes just yet, Louis pushes his hand beneath his pillow, the final resting place for his phone every night, no matter where he is. He moves carefully, wary that the slightest jostle will wake Harry.

_ ‘Are you alive?’ _reads Louis’ first message of the day.

It’s only a few minutes old and, oddly enough, it’s from Harry. Louis rolls onto his back. The bed is empty. He looks around the room, struck by the possibility that he’s in his own flat, that he went home after the opening, and everything afterwards was a reverie. But those are Harry’s books by the window. Around his waist are Harry’s sheets. Harry’s candles in colorful jars here and there, and scraps of paper that Harry scribbled a note on in the past and then seemingly forgot. Everything is here in Harry’s home except Harry.

_ ‘Barely,’ _ Louis replies. _ ‘Where are you?’ _

_ ‘Yuzu.’ _

The last several hours start filtering back to him. Very slowly, as if the memories themselves are aware of his need for delicacy and patience. Louis vaguely remembers the murky tenor of Harry’s voice around 9 AM. He needed to meet with Tyler, he’d said. Also, there were no leftovers in the fridge. Before that, around 6 AM, Louis remembers them shuffling into bed and looking at one another across the distance of a shared pillow.

Six o’clock, on any given day, whether sober or hungover, is a drowsy magic hour. The hour of astral projection and vivid dreams. The hour of paradoxes, of both fear and fantasy hovering torturously in reach. He remembers running his hand through Harry’s hair, partly to lull him to sleep, and finding himself lulled instead by the part of Harry’s mouth. It didn’t seem real what he’d done with that mouth.

Louis might have kissed him. He thinks he did. He might have wanted to do more than kiss him. But it was late and they were tired. The magic was expiring. Then they were asleep.

His phone buzzes again. _ ‘I’ll be back in an hour.’ _

There’s a headache brewing in tandem with a bundle of thoughts jetting around his head all of a sudden. He drinks the entire glass of water Harry left him. A quick shower helps. He gets dressed, but he’s starving and nauseous. He has a banana and tries not to think about how good a warm meal would be. He finds his shoes by the couch and shoves his feet into them.

“It’s complicated,” he says to Stevie before leaving. “I’ll text him, I swear.”

And he does. _ ‘I have to go. Talk later!’ _

Two flights down, he steps through the front door of Harry’s building and there’s Harry with the handlebar of his bike in one hand and his phone in the other. His brows and nose wrinkle. “You _ have _ to go?”

The front door shuts with a blunt thud. “I do, yeah,” Louis says. Already their exchange is reminiscent of last night’s at Yuzu because already Louis wants to stay. Harry is persuasive without any force and not much effort. Louis was determined to go home last night, but didn’t. He needed time to think, but didn’t take it. And it’s twice as hard to do it now when it’s not the idea of being with Harry, but the reality of being with him that is so alluring. But he needs to think. “I thought you said you’d be back in an hour.”

It is, of course, the absolute wrong thing to say. 

“It’s been an hour,” Harry says, dryly. 

“Right, yeah, sorry. I’ve just got a lot to do, you know? And piano lessons in the morning,” Louis says with an exaggeratedly exhausted huff. It’s the truth, but not so taxing that he has to hurry off. “Also just feeling a bit shit right now.”

“You haven’t had lunch,” Harry says. He leans his bike against the building. “I could make something.”

“Tempting,” Louis says. And it is, but— “To be honest with you, I think if I were to go upstairs with you, we’d probably fuck.”

Harry looks as if someone has splashed cold water on his face. His laugh is shocked and short. “Then come upstairs.”

“Last night was great,” Louis says. It had all seemed really great and really ideal last night. “But we were also drunk—”

“You can just say you’re having second thoughts.”

Louis chews the inside of his cheek, looking down the road, wishing he could magically be teleported to the bus stop yonder. Onto the next bus, even. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just need a day to sort my head out. And I need to be sober while I’m doing it. That’s all.”

Harry doesn’t reply right away. “Okay,” he says eventually, drawing his keys out of his pocket. He reaches for his bike. “I’ll be here when you’re ready.”

_ Fuck _ , Louis thinks as Harry puts his back to him. _ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. _ He should probably take this chance to leave, except he can’t now. “You’re cross, aren’t you?”

“A bit, yeah,” Harry says. “I just think this is why I didn’t say anything sooner. Feels like I’m losing you already.”

“That’s a bit dramatic.”

“It’s not. You never answered my question. About why you didn’t say anything. But I know you and I feel like maybe it’s ‘cause you were thinking ahead, same as me. To the first time we have some petty argument and go too long without speaking. Or things get awkward for whatever reason. Maybe it has a little something to do with the thought of losing me too? And I get it. I don’t know how to fix that. I just know I can get scared of wanting too much sometimes and feel greedy at the same time. I know sometimes you spend the night and I can’t fucking sleep. And sometimes I’m miserable, Louis. Sometimes you make me miserable.”

Louis looks around and sure enough there’s a person, stalling on the other side of the street, very clearly eavesdropping. He resists the urge to flip them off. There’s always an audience in this city. Nothing to be done about it. And anyway, he’s angry at himself, more than he is at a peeping tom and more than he is at Harry.

“If I make you miserable, why’d you keep inviting me around?” he asks.

Harry shakes his head. He turns and unlocks his door and pushes his bike inside the building frustratedly. It was a stupid question, Louis knows that.

“There’s an actual reason why we didn’t do this sooner,” Louis says. “It’s because we agreed that we’re shit at relationships. You said so once, Harry. We have that in common.”

“I’m sure I did, but we’re already in a relationship,” Harry says. “We’re just not fucking.”

+

Willa plays a chord so offensive to Louis’ ears, it immediately snaps him out of his trance. Even Clove, their calico, lazing in the corner lifts her head and regards them with confusion. 

“What was that?” Louis asks.

Willa smiles sweetly. “I did it right the first two times but I don’t think you were listening.”

“Alright, cheeky,” Louis says. “I _ was _ listening.”

Maybe not to his usual capacity, but that’s her point. Willa is the most clever fifteen-year-old in New York with a whole arsenal of fair and exact points to make at any time.

The truth is Harry had a night out with Zayn and Clemena yesterday and Louis had a night in on Instagram. Harry didn’t look happy, per se, but he didn’t look as miserable as Louis either. There was also a bearded baby-faced bloke named Liam in attendance and considering Louis has never met this person before, it didn’t make sense how bloody chummy he was. With his ridiculous muscled arm thrown over Harry’s shoulder in every picture on Zayn’s story and in a video, mocking several things Harry said.

Mocking Harry is meant to be Louis’ job. Even when they’ve fallen out.

The problem isn’t Liam. It’s that there might be parts of Harry’s life where Louis is excluded or replaced in the future. Sometimes that’s the consequence of dating a person (or dating them accidentally as Louis has done) and having things end. In this case, it’s simply the consequence of being dishonest.

He pushes his fingers up beneath his glasses to massage his eyelids.

The problem is that he keeps doing this. Cycling through what went wrong or could go wrong. When he’s not debating that, he’s plagued by general reminders. When he used his new French press that morning, he thought of Harry doing the same. And when he watered his plant yesterday evening, he thought of Harry and Stevie. And more embarrassingly, when he had a wank in the shower just hours ago, well…

“Are you taking a break?” Willa’s mother, Irina, appears at the living room’s archway. She is dressed head-to-toe in beige, offset by her copper hair. Assorted gold jewelry sends irritating bursts of sunlight reflecting into his eyes. Their home on the Lower East Side always smells of her slightly pungent but ultimately pleasant cologne. Irina has a job, but Louis has never been quite sure what it is. Only that it involves city-wide photoshoots and varied sponsorships. Currently there are shipments of insect-based jerky and mood-boosting milkshake kits all over the flat. 

“Just a quick one,” Louis says.

“How about some milkshakes?” Irina asks, happily.

Willa has her back to her mother, but Louis sees her cross her eyes and stick her front teeth out over her bottom lip.

“It’s a bit early for me,” Louis says. “Might just have a cup of tea, if that’s alright.”

“I’ll have a cuppa as well, Mummy,” Willa says. She’s mostly joking, but he has noticed how other words and phrases of his have claimed legitimate ground in her vocabulary. Nonetheless, he bumps his shoulder into hers and gives her a playful glare.

A full cup of tea later, he’s lucid and remorseful. “Sorry I zoned out.”

“It’s okay,” Willa says.

“It’s really not. Your mum pays for these lessons.”

“My mum has a lot of money.”

Louis tries not to laugh and fails. “It’s still not okay. I’ve got some stuff on my mind, but I’m paying complete attention to you for the next”—he checks his watch—“36 minutes. And I think we should learn something new. Clove and I agree you’ve mastered ‘A Whole New World’.”

“Can you teach me the chords for ‘Irreplaceable’? I’m breaking up with James next week and I want to record myself singing a bit of it on Instagram.”

“Why are you breaking up with him? Louis wonders.

“He’s not very funny,” Willa says. “He also never listens to me and never has anything interesting to say. He’s not the best kisser. And I just don’t like spending time with him.”

It’s not as if Louis would willingly or openly take relationship advice from a high schooler. Not knowing all he does about himself and his relationships in secondary school. But kids also have a way of simplifying things that adults lose along the way. It goes without saying that Harry is funny, that he listens and has interesting things to say. That there’s no better way to spend time these days than with him.

The kissing is a given too, but Louis is trying not to think about it.

“To the left, to the left,” Willa sings.

Louis smiles. “G,” he says. “That’s your first chord.”

He leaves around noon with a whole day ahead of him and nothing to do with it. Typically he’d find out what Harry was up to, but he knows. It’s still opening weekend, which means Harry is likely stoking the fire and frenzy of Sunday brunch at Yuzu. And even if he wasn’t, they haven’t spoken since yesterday morning. Nonsensically, just in case, he checks for a text message. Sees nothing. Isn’t surprised. Feels miserable anyway.

He’s missed a call from his agency, though, which is an immediate and welcome distraction. One never knows which call might be The Call. It’s dangerous and annoying to stop in the middle of the sidewalk in New York, and he’s nearly at his door, so he waits until he’s inside and rings back.

+

The last several years had been rough. He tries not to talk about it because he tries not to feel sorry for himself or goad others into feeling sorry for him. But he began to miss the smell of his mother’s home. He missed lying in the middle of a pitch and staring up at the sky without thinking about how limitless it was. This was Louis’ blessing and his curse: To always be wanting. Whenever he thought of how far a person could go, he wanted to be that person.

New York was full of wanters, which made it ideal, but that could go sour very quickly.

In the last year, especially, it had. At least once a week, Louis would consider packing up and heading home. All the way home. Temporarily, he thought. An indefinite break. He considered it to such a degree that he looked into flights. He worried for his music class and for the teacher that would replace him next term. He wondered if he should store his couch — a fantastic couch that an old coworker had sold him at an insane discount — or sell it. He kept auditioning, but also dreading what would happen if he did give notice at work or did sell his couch only to receive a role. That was August.

Harry was September.

The first night after his fry-up and cocktails, Louis left the apartment Harry shared with Claire to an autumnal chill in the air and the distinct feeling that New York had put forth something rare. He had enough friends. New ones were fine, but he didn’t need them. Whatever he and Harry had tip-toed into felt ages old and long lost.

On his next visit, he came tepidly to “check in on Stevie.” He can’t remember the purpose of the visit after that or the one after that, but he was always fed. Miso-marinated flank steak. A four-cheese spaghetti squash bake with seared scallops. Lobster paella. Soon, there was hardly a night when Louis wasn’t eating with Harry or planning to eat with Harry. And one night Louis fell asleep on the couch, drunk and stuffed, only to shuffle into Harry’s bed an hour later. And then sharing a bed became commonplace too.

All the lines began to blur until even Louis’ infatuation, which had been so certain and slightly overwhelming in the beginning, seemed no more prominent than anything else about their relationship. It never stopped or slowed or strinked. If anything it’s been magnetized. He has to zoom out on his life to see it.

Another thing he notices upon doing so is that he never did sell his couch.

Sitting on said couch after his call with the agency, he thinks, _ Thank fuck. _

+

He dials his family first and endures round after round of congratulations. All their faces jammed together on his screen and his mum's eyes are wet. Every time someone enters the kitchen, he has to recite the news from the top and the whole family begins cheering again. His nan still hasn’t stopped crying. Finally, when everyone has had their fill and dinner has been delayed long enough, they allow him to end the call.

He immediately makes another.

Harry’s phone rings to voicemail, but Louis doesn’t moan about because he expected as much. And the obvious and simplest solution is for him to put his shoes back on and deliver his news in person. The trains are fucked on the weekends, so he takes the bus.

There are three parties standing outside of Yuzu when he arrives and two parties waiting inside. Another day, another packed house. Louis stands there looking around at all the people happily stuffing their faces and laughing and his chest swells. He gets the feeling he is also being watched. Of course he is. The hostess tilts her head at him curiously.

Louis chances a guess. “Cora, right?”

“Yes,” she says, over-excitedly. She squints her eyes at him. “We met at the opening, didn’t we? You’re Harry’s boyfriend!”

“Louis,” he says, because he can tell she’s blanking on his name. He says it with an equivalent degree of excitement, feeling inclined to match her exuberance and thrumming with the surge of power ‘Harry’s boyfriend’ allots him. It’s implied that Harry, at some point past, present or future, might be referred to as ‘Louis’ boyfriend’ and the thought, Louis can now admit, is delicious.

“Right, duh,” Cora says. “Did you need a seat? Or were you looking for Harry?”

“Just Harry.”

Cora peeks around the room. “He was on the floor earlier, but I haven’t seen him in a while. You can just head back there honestly. Someone will recognize you.”

Louis thanks her and slips past the folks waiting for tables, including the one man who’d been staring at him suspiciously as if Louis were looking to jump the queue. He heads all the way to the back as if he owns the place. None of the waiters stops him or asks questions as he breaches the black and yellow noren.

The kitchen is ahead through a swinging door. Beside that is a back door with a window feeding pale yellow light into the corridor. The restrooms are to his left. In two strides, he reaches the kitchen, which is when someone says, “Excuse me?”

Reluctantly, Louis turns around. He has to fight an urge to roll his eyes, seeing Tyler in all his big-headed glory before him.

“Louis,” he says, like it’s the first or last word in a dirge. “Thought that was you.”

Weird to hear his name from a stranger’s mouth as if they’re anything but. “Tyler, right?” Louis counters. “Don't think we’ve actually met. Kind of rushed off with Harry the other night.”

“We haven’t met, but I know you,” Tyler says. The kitchen door swings open and a waiter exits with three plates of food balanced precariously on their forearm. Louis and Tyler step out of the way. 

“You’re on Harry’s Instagram a lot,” Tyler adds.

And yet he still isn’t following him. It feels like a dig, if ever there was one. Louis smiles. “Just helping him rake in the followers.” Tyler doesn’t laugh. Louis didn’t expect him to. “I need to talk to Harry. It’s a bit urgent.”

“We ran out of lychee. The parfaits are more popular than we thought they’d be,” Tyler says, seemingly apropos of nothing. “He went down the road to get a few cans more.”

“Is there somewhere I can wait for him?”

“Sure, wait here,” Tyler says. He steps past him and into the kitchen, then returns a second later with a plastic crate which he sets by the back door. “There’s a small office back there, but it gets really hot because of the kitchen. This’ll do, yeah? Harry should come back through this door.”

Louis realizes now that the door has been propped open, allowing a breeze into the corridor. It’s a little awkward, but it’s also the perfect place for Louis to sit and wait. “This is good, thanks,” Louis says, plopping down on the crate.

“Sure,” Tyler says.

Louis isn’t a mean person, but he gets the sense Tyler isn’t either. Not really. He also doesn’t really get what Harry sees in this man, but it’s important enough that they’ve been friends for over a decade and business partners for half of one. And so for now, whether Tyler likes or not, Louis chooses to be kind to him.

“Congrats on the opening,” he says. “And nice meeting you.”

Another waiter comes through the doors and asks Tyler a question in Japanese. “See you later,” Tyler says, and hurries into the kitchen. Well, Louis tried.

He waits and avoids the questioning looks of waiters who rush by and plays a game on his phone to pass the time. It’s only ten minutes that he waits, but it feels like longer. Finally the back door swings open. Louis sees the toe of Harry’s Converse first as Harry struggles to hold the door open with his hands full. He stands quickly and pushes the door open. Harry freezes.

“Hi,” Louis says. He smiles warmly and it feels warm, the way it radiates within him. Like all of him is smiling.

“Hi,” Harry says.

“It’s packed out there.”

“It’s crazy today, yeah,” Harry says. “We ran out of—”

“Lychee, I heard. Tyler told me.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “You talked?”

“We did.”

Harry just stares at him for a second. “Sorry, I need to get these in there,” he says, gesturing to his two bags of fruit. He leans into the swinging door, pushing it open. “Come on.”

Tyler was right that the kitchen is hot. Not annoyingly so, but Louis definitely preferred the breeze. Harry sets the bags down on the first free space he sees and two of the sous chefs rush in to draw the cans out, can openers at the ready. Harry nods towards the back and together, they walk quickly to the room in the corner of the kitchen. Louis knows they’re being watched, but then they’re inside the office and Harry draws the blinds in the window of the door down.

“Cute,” Louis says, looking around the room.

It’s more of a cupboard than an office, but it’s very cute. There’s a window that has been left open. There are a few pictures and certificates framed and hung on the walls. There’s enough room for two chairs on either side of a little desk with a Macbook and printer and a steel fan oscillating and whirring. Harry sits on the corner of the desk.

“I like it,” Harry says, shrugging.

“Me too.”

Harry purses his lips, regarding him, relentlessly. “How are you?”

“Good,” Louis says. “Saw you and Zayn were out last night.”

“Yeah, Clemena wanted to have dinner before her flight,” he says. “I would’ve invited you, but— I didn’t think you’d come.”

“I might’ve,” Louis says. “Who’s this Liam person? Never brought him ‘round before.”

“We just hired him here,” Harry says. “New bartender.”

“He’s a bit handsy for a new hire? Thought maybe you two were old friends.”

Harry doesn’t answer right away. The confusion in his expression diffuses, only to be replaced by something else. Something smug. He ducks his head, hiding a smile.

“What?” Louis asks, affronted.

“He’s _ just _ a friend, yeah,” Harry says. “Why? Were you jealous?”

The Warm Fuzzy Feelings come upon him with such alacrity it’s impossible to believe there was ever a time they weren’t there. Or that Louis ever successfully ignored them. Harry is charming and knee-weakening and always has been and always will be. Louis can’t even look at him. He can’t stop looking at him.

“You’d like it if I was,” he says.

“I would.”

“You did say you were greedy.”

“I am greedy.”

Louis would say greed is the most universal and the most human of deadly sins. And the most sensual. It embodies gluttony and eclipses lust. For example, Harry’s food is borderline orgasmic and whenever a meal is imminent, to be hungry seems akin to being horny. Also, the way Harry says the word, the way he looks at Louis as he says it, affixes an image in Louis’ mind of Harry between Louis’ parted legs two nights prior. And how else can a person explain infatuation — or love — but to be greedy for a person and all that they are. For their attention and their time. Their humor and their conversation. Their ugly and their beautiful and everything that lies between.

“I was thinking earlier about when we met,” Louis says. “You know the only reason I came back to your place was ‘cause I thought you wanted to fuck, yeah?”

Harry recoils, hand on his heart. “Not for the world’s best fry-up?”

“The sausage, maybe.”

Harry sputters. They laugh together for the first time in two days. Louis has missed how quickly laughter takes over Harry’s person, making his nose scrunch and his shoulders hunch. It’s so easy to laugh with him and so easy to see the two of them doing so indefinitely.

“Why didn’t we?” Harry asks.

“You started talking about your mum and your yuzu tree.”

“Say no more.”

Louis looks at Harry’s mouth, at his collarbones, his hands folded loosely in his lap, all of him. “Also, it felt like if we did anything that night, then that’d be the end of it,” he says. “And I knew straight away that I wanted you around for longer. For always.”

Harry smiles. “And I will be.”

“Good. That’s good.” Louis draws a breath. “The problem is— I just think that after this weekend… to have you around isn’t enough.”

Someone knocks on the door, startling them both, and Harry darts up. He keeps a hand on the door, clearly worried someone might open it. “Yes?” he says, his gaze on Louis still, Louis’ gaze on him. The person says something with a lot of restaurant lingo.

“Great. I’ll be out in a bit,” Harry says. He locks the door.

“You’re the most important person to me,” Louis says, picking up right where he left off. “Obviously, there’s my family but you’ve got your own category. I have to talk to you every day or the day is all wrong. I don’t know how you managed it in under a year, but you’re genuinely so bloody important. I mean that. And you’re right that the thought of losing you is scary enough for me to sit on my arse and never change a thing about us.”

It’s a very, very small office, meaning Louis needs but two steps to reach him. “But I’ll also admit,” he says, sliding his hands across Harry’s waist, “that it’s not enough and I’m feeling a little greedy.”

With their mouths an inch apart, it’s unclear who moves first to close the distance. But the moment it’s gone, it never existed. Like the night of the opening, he feels like he’s been kissing Harry his whole life, if not waiting his whole life to kiss Harry. Unlike the night of the opening, this feels certain and unrelated to the buzz and lure of alcohol.

“You’re not worried we’ll do it all wrong?” Harry asks him. 

“No, I still am, but also I think we’ve been doing it right this whole time.”

Except that they haven’t been snogging nonstop, but Louis can and will make up for lost time. He has both arms around Harry’s waist now, fully dreading the moment he has to untangle himself. A whole restaurant waits.

Harry draws back, still cradling Louis’ face in his palms. “You’ll go on a date with me then?”

“I feel like we’ve also been on a million dates,” Louis says. “But what’ve you got in mind?

“Just dinner. But maybe a really posh dinner.”

Louis could never object to dinner, posh or otherwise. “You know where I’ve never been?”

“Don’t say Augustine.”

“I’ve never been to Augustine, Harry,” Louis says. “Isn’t that a shame? I’ve known you all this time. Son of Anne Augustine herself, and not once—”

“I told you to drop in whenever you want.”

“And I told you it’s not the kind of place you just _ drop _ in to!”

Harry attempts to look exasperated, but he’s palpably amused. “I don’t think it’d be much of a date if I take you to my mum’s restaurant.”

“Says you and only you.”

They narrow their eyes at each other.

“Fine,” Harry says. “Augustine it is. How’s Friday?”

“Friday’s good,” Louis says. And it’s not that he forgot his news or the urgent need to deliver it that brought him here, but now feels like the best and only time to finally say it. “I have my first rehearsal, so it might be good to celebrate afterwards.”

“Rehearsal for…?”

“Oh, I got the part,” Louis says. “I’ll be playing Hermes at the Brooks Atkinson Theatre next year.”

Harry grasps Louis’ shoulders suddenly. Louis isn’t entirely sure he’s breathing. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m dead fucking serious. I got it.”

“Fuck!” Harry shouts and Louis laughs, startled and overjoyed. Harry gives him a shake. “Say it louder!”

“I got the fucking part!” Louis shouts.

“Fuck, yeah, you did”

“I did that shit.”

They say ‘fuck’ ten times more, each one a decible higher than the last, until someone knocks on the door. Harry unlocks it and throws it open. It’s Tyler. Harry does not wait to hear what he has to say.

“He got the fucking part!” he says to Tyler and then, to the entire kitchen, he yells, “Louis’ going to be on Broadway!”

They all pause their hustling to cheer for him and Louis has a funny and happy thought: that none of the people in this room knows him by name (yet) and in future iterations of this story, they’ll say ‘Harry’s boyfriend is going to be on Broadway.’ And Louis is alright with that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you're all staying indoors, staying safe and staying healthy! sending you much much love!!

Louis sits in a jaunty Midtown bar with a live band that’s a decibel louder than necessary, as all things tend to be on a Friday night. And usually, with the right people and the right booze, he likes a place that’s too noisy and too packed on the weekend. Sometimes that’s exactly what he’s looking for.

Just not this weekend.

“Louis, are you single? And do you have single friends?” Earl asks, turning away from Cassandra, one of their crewmembers. It’s hard to hear him, but Louis unfortunately does. It’s not that he doesn’t like Earl. Out of the entire cast, Earl is probably the one Louis likes most.

Being single or not single is just the last thing Louis wants to talk about given how his night has gone.

“Me and Cass are trying to turn this year around,” Earl adds.

Louis waits for a lull in the music. “My single friends are arseholes, loves. I’m sorry,” he says. “Niall’s a good lad, actually.”

“Gay or straight?” Earl asks.

“Straight,” Louis says.

Cassandra leans forward. “British?”

“Nope. Irish.”

“Yes, I will take his number,” she says, triumphantly. She’s a bit drunk, Louis can tell. All day she’s been quiet. Pretty and polite, but definitely the kind of person that needs either time or alcohol to loosen up. He’s not confident in his match-making skills, but Niall will likely _ not _ hate him for passing along his number.

“And what about you?” Earl asks. “Single?”

Louis was hoping he forgot that bit. “Uh. Don’t think so… It’s complicated.” He knows more questions are sure to follow and after a sip of his drink, he adds, “We’re working on uncomplicating it now, but that’s also a bit complicated.”

That didn’t make things clearer at all.

Earl cringes. Louis kind of wants to do the same. He feels like he has to explain even further now or else Earl will feel sorry for him. And really, there’s nothing for him to feel sorry about. There are people who have it worse than Louis, surely. People who don’t know how a person feels about them at all.

“It’s all really new. We were friends for a while. Then, just this week, we decided to be more. But I haven’t seen him since Sunday.”

And a whole week leaves a lot of time to question the certainty of everything.

“Well, it’s Friday now,” Earl says. “Why aren’t you out with him?”

“Our plans fell through…”

He decides not to mention that his plans fell through because of this. Because of his new job. Because of Earl and the rest of his cast and crew. Earlier, he met with them all for what wasn’t a rehearsal, or even a meeting, as much as it was a prolonged icebreaker. He ate some food brought in from the halal place down the street. He drank some beer. They read a bit and shared a toast. By the end, Louis was more optimistic about his new role than ever and really excited to tell Harry all about it.

He thinks it was Earl, or maybe one of the directors, who first suggested getting more drinks elsewhere. And suddenly the whole production was on board. And Louis made the mistake of mentioning it to Harry, and well—

“Not because of us?” Earl asks, brows arching.

“Well— Yes, actually. He thought this was more important.” Louis pauses, and adds, carefully, “Not that I don’t.”

Louis can’t say outright that he’d much rather be with Harry than in this overcrowded bar with his cast mates. Especially not to this particular cast mate. Earl plays Hades in their production, as in the leading role, and Louis is too green and doesn’t know him well enough to be totally honest yet.

Earl ignores the last bit. “Where’d you find him?” he asks. “And does _ he _ have single friends?”

Louis laughs. “I’ll ask.”

“Not to sound like a whore, which I am, but you know how many men I’ve cut loose because ‘I wasn’t making time for them?’” I’ve lost count. Not sure what they were expecting but— Anyway, you found a good one,” Earl says. “If you feel so guilty, you should invite him to join us. _ Then _ you two can sneak off together.”

“Why wouldn’t I just ditch you and meet up with him?” Louis asks, fully disarmed by the word ‘whore’ leaving Earl’s mouth. They’re all tipsy here and it’d probably be fine even if they weren’t.

“Because I’m nosy and want to see what he looks like.”

“Couldn’t I just show you a picture?”

“Babe, I don’t trust anyone’s picture,” Earl says, gravely.

Louis laughs, shocked and amused. “I do really want to see him.”

“There you go,” Earl says.

The cast, minus a few, are generally chill people. And most are gearing up for their third round. Harry gets along with everyone he meets. He charms everyone. There’s no harm at all in him charming Louis’ new cast mates. Louis fishes his phone out of his pocket.

**_ ‘I’m at Haswell Green’s,’ _**Louis sends him.**_ ‘Please come and rescue me.’ _**

** ‘That won’t be weird?’ **Harry replies.

** _ ‘Not at all. Also Earl wants to meet you. And he’s the lead…’ _ **

** ‘Guess I have no choice! I’ll be there in 30’ **

And just over thirty minutes later, Harry walks into the bar, in one of his graphic tees and a chunky cardigan. With his demure confidence and a warm smile directed at the first stranger he makes eye contact with and the next and the next until he spots Louis and there’s a flicker of heat, medium-low and private, that he maintains as he makes his way towards him.

“If that’s not him and you’re staring a stranger down like that, your boy is in trouble,” Earl says.

Louis laughs. “No, that’s definitely my boy.”

Harry sticks his hand out for Earl to shake, first thing, and introduces himself without Louis having too. Then he hesitates, with a glance at Louis’ mouth, before leaning in and pressing a quick kiss to Louis’ cheek. Then he slides onto the bar stool beside Louis. The way Cassandra, and even Earl, look at him when Harry asks them how their first day went or when he laughs and his dimples spring up— If Louis weren’t already wishing for a kiss on the mouth, he would be now. As a way to ‘mine’. Not that he thinks he has a thing to worry about, but he wants everyone to know. For sure. He’d like to know for sure.

They lose track of time. Two hours pass when Harry empties his glass and leans his shoulder against Louis’. Another infuriating glance at Louis’ mouth. “Can I ask if you’re out to everyone here? Like how you’d introduce me if you had to? To someone besides Earl and Cassandra?”

“My good pal, Harry Styles,” Louis says.

“Perfect.”

Louis laughs. “I’m out, yeah. I think it all depends on how you want me to introduce you. So, what do you want?”

“Maybe for now, I’ll be your good pal Harry. And if you’re not sick of me by the end of the night,” Harry says, pushing his empty glass to the inside of the bar, “The next time someone asks, you can say I’m your boyfriend…”

Louis smiles. “Works for me,” he says, and he leans in, kissing Harry, firmly and fully on the mouth. It’s over quickly. Not enough to satisfy him. Not even close. “As long as we get to do more of that.”

“We can do it all night if you want,” Harry says.

Louis finishes off his drink. “Deal. Do you want to get out of here?”

“Yes, please. Are you hungry?”

“Fucking starving. Too bad about Augustine’s. Must be closed up now.”

Harry smiles. His biggest smile of the night, chin raised slightly. “Not a problem for me, is it?”

\+ 

Augustine resides at the top of a skyscraper in Midtown. Floors 39 to 41, to be exact. Standing at the lifts reserved for the restaurant is a tuxedoed man who takes one look at Harry and presses the ‘up’ button. “Good evening, Mr Styles,” he says.

“Andres,” Harry says, holding the lift door open for Louis. “Manon hasn’t left, has he?”

“You just missed him about ten minutes ago.”

“That’s too bad. Good to see you, though,” Harry says, stepping inside with Louis. The doors close a second later. They can barely hold in a giggle until then.

“I need to meet Manon and make up my own mind about him,” Louis says.

“He’s a spy,” Harry says. “What more do you need to know?”

“Do you not want your mum knowing about me?” Louis asks. He’s completely joking.

Harry purses his lips. “My mum knows a lot about you.”

“_ Oh _. She does, does she?”

The lift doors open on 40 and he steps out without saying anything more. (But he must know Louis will be bringing it back into discussion at a later date.) The dining room is entirely empty. With the lights on and the fountain at the back still running, the restaurant bears an eerie quality. The gilded walls gleam and the tables with their gossamer white linens and dying candles are at once ghostly and idyllic. The second level is more of a balcony that wraps around the main dining room and in the center of the ceiling overlooking it all is an amber stained glass ceiling. It’s probably stunning in the daylight, but even the moon gives it a gauzy, iridescent glow.

Harry takes Louis’ hand very easily and leads him all the way to the back, through a set of double doors and into the kitchen. He finds the light switch and only releases Louis once the fluorescent beams have flickered on. He disappears briefly to find a stool, sets at the massive island in the center of the kitchen, and pats the cushion. 

“Alright, we’ll start with the first course,” Harry says. He pours him a stubby glass of ‘Breton cider’. It’s so small. The size of two shot glasses, maybe. Louis taps his glass against Harry’s and empties it in two gulps. Harry’s glass is noticeably still three quarters full.

“You’re supposed to sip it,” he says.

“Wait. That was the first course?” Louis asks.

Harry nibbles his top lip. “It’s an aperitif.”

“Is this why I was never allowed to come here until now?”

“That’s why there’s no one around to see, yeah.”

“Oh, you’re ashamed of me?”

“I’d never say that,” Harry says, trying very hard not to laugh. “Now. There’s usually six courses, but we’ve only got time for two. Don’t want to be here all night.”

“Are we in a hurry?” Louis asks, knowing well that there’s a bed in Brooklyn with their names all over it. Harry’s bed, most likely. It’s closer and bigger.

Harry rubs his nose, hiding another laugh. “Only a little.”

So they skip the soup and they skip the braised fish and they start with cheese. “You can’t leave without the cheese,” Harry insists. It’s meant to come after the main course, but Harry decides to start there. “After the main, I might try dessert, but I can’t promise I’ll do it justice.”

“I think you’ll do fine. I’d like to make a request for the main course, though, if that’s alright?” Louis folds his arms together atop the counter, looking as diplomatic and unbothered as possible. “I rewatched your mum‘s episode on Chef’s Table. Around the time when I found your series with Tyler. She talks about this dish they serve here. Inspired by you.”

“Petit Jardin.”

“That’s the one,” Louis says, smiling serenely. “I’d love that, please.”

Harry nods, a small smile on his face. “Done.”

He gets started, although not the way he does at home. He doesn’t wing it. He spends a chunk of time organizing the entire meal in his head. Typically, he’s got a room full of people to help out. On his own, it requires some tactics and planning. He pours them both glasses from a pricey bottle of red. He ties his fringe into a little knot atop his head and scrubs his hands clean. Carefully, he starts collecting ingredients, preheats the oven and starts on the duck.

Not a minute has passed once he actually begins before Louis says, “I know you’re focused but I think if you can’t ask your dying questions on a date, when can you?”

“I’m an open book.”

“I don’t know. I think you’re really good at tricking people into thinking you are. There’s a lot I still don’t know about you.”

Harry peeks at him, sheepishly. “If you ask, I’ll answer.”

Louis drums his fingers on the countertop as he thinks. “What did your mum have to say about me?”

“Only good things.”

Louis waits, visibly unsatisfied.

“She asked me on Christmas if we were dating. I said not yet.”

“Oh, I like that. Very confident,” Louis says. “You think she approves?”

“It’s really hard to tell.”

“Maybe she’s worried that if you meet someone here, you’ll never visit home.”

Harry turns away to slide the duck in the oven. “Maybe. Ready for cheese?”

Louis can’t tell if it’s a diversion or not, but it’s a good one, if so. Louis is desperate for cheese. Any food whatsoever, to be honest. Harry roasts some hazelnuts while toasting bread. He plates it — one wedge of Port Salut and one wedge of Comte. The last edition to their cheese plate are slices of clementine and a chunk of gooey honeycomb. He takes a seat beside Louis, and their knees brush and knock together often. Because when Harry is happy (especially when having pasta or cheese) he swings his knee back and forth. They tear at the bread and pile cheese and sweet things on top and stuff it all into their mouths. There’s no one around to see and they wouldn’t care if there was.

“Did you date people in the past who cooked for you?” Louis asks, licking a wad of honey off his thumb.

Harry’s brows crease. “I usually do the cooking, but you’re the first I’ve cooked for this much,” he says, popping up to check on the duck.

“But would you want someone to cook for you?” Louis asks, carefully, as Harry pokes around in the oven.

Harry looks at him. It seems like he might laugh and Louis might kill him if he does. “I’d eat whatever you cooked for me, if that’s something you want to do.”

“Sounds a little condescending, to be honest."

“I’d genuinely appreciate it,” Harry says. “But I don’t expect you to. And I only want something from you that you really want to give me.”

“I’ll make you the fry-up I promised when we first met.”

“That’s brave,” Harry says.

Louis reaches for a scrap of apple peel on the counter and tosses it at him. It’s too lightweight to gain any distance and lands in about the same spot he picked it up from. Harry is delighted.

“Did _ you _ date people in the past who cooked for you?” he asks Louis.

“Had someone do eggs and toast once.”

“Hope it was good eggs and toast,” Harry says. “Was this the guy we ran into at Trader Joe’s?”

“No, he doesn’t count,” Louis dismisses, although he and Harry had gone to lengths to avoid the bloke, analyzing the frozen pizzas until the coast was clear.

“The last guy I dated was early last year,” Louis adds. He doesn’t know why he chooses to mention it. Only that, as curious as he is about Harry’s exes (or just one ex in particular), he hasn’t said a thing about his own. Not even the last, who left Louis out of sorts for months. But he hasn’t really thought of him, he realises. Not since Harry, he hasn’t.

“He had a daughter who lived in another state with her mum,” Louis says. “Which wasn’t a problem at all. I like kids. But I didn’t find out until nearly two months in and I found out on my own. He was a good lad, otherwise. And maybe I was too quick to end things. But I hate being lied to more than anything else.”

Harry is eerily quiet and impassive. Only the slightest hint of a frown. It’s a first for Louis around Harry — to feel even remotely self-conscious. But he does. Lots of firsts tonight. Lots of heightened stakes too. It never crosses his mind until now that something he might say, as honest as it is, could muddy this burgeoning thing between them.

“Is that a thing you do?” Harry asks quietly. “End things quickly…?”

Louis runs his palms down his jeans. “The last few relationships ended quickly, yeah. I ended them quickly,” he says after stalling a few seconds more. “I probably wouldn’t’ve hesitated before to just say that to you. But maybe it’s just occurred to me how much I want this to work? Between us.”

“Only now?”

“Well, maybe since Sunday. But the pressure's on right now.”

Harry touches his fingertips to Louis’ knuckles. Not intending to take his hand, clearly. Just touching him, teasing him. “You don’t really have to worry about me,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You don’t have to worry about me either.”

Harry makes a face, his nose scrunching. “I don’t know. You can be a little hard to read… Which is intimidating sometimes. Maybe a little worrying.”

“I _ intimidate _ you?”

“Sometimes, but I don’t hate it.”

Louis snorts. “You don’t hate it or—?”

“It’s kind of hot,” Harry confesses.

“We’re getting somewhere now,” Louis says. He reaches for his wine glass, using his free hand, not the one Harry’s petting, because he doesn’t want him to stop. “What else do you like?”

“With you? Probably anything,” Harry says, looking at his fingers on Louis’ wrist. The lighting is too good in here. It means he can’t hide the very slow, very steady flush creeping over his cheekbones. “I honestly think you could do anything to me. And I’d love it.”

Louis looks at his mouth, his eyes narrowing. He wants to run his thumb through the honeycomb and watch Harry lick it clean. He feels a twitch in his trousers at the thought alone.

“Want more?” Harry asks.

Louis lifts his brows. It might just be him, but the air seems a little thin. “More what exactly?”

“Food,” Harry says slowly.

“Oh.” Louis laughs, putting his face in his hands. “Yeah, sounds good.”

So it’s on to the main course.

“Can I help?” Louis asks. It’s not the first time he’s done so. Tonight or on previous nights. Sometimes, he does it to be polite (especially when they were first getting to know each other). There are other times when he genuinely wants to be involved.

Tonight, it’s the latter. He could use the distraction. Sitting there, watching Harry cook, isn’t helping with his boner at all. “Please?”

Miraculously, Harry finds something for him to do. 

Harry grew up being not too fond of boeuf bourguignon, although he can’t say why and likes it enough now. But he was always a fan of the baguette dumplings involved in the dish. When his mum created Petit Jardin, she was fully aware of this. It incorporates all the flavours and textures of Breton cuisine that he loves most. Crisp, roasted duck. Mountain rose apples that are stunningly pink inside. Pistou, a sauce reminiscent of pesto minus the pine nuts. And the fried dumplings, which Louis is made responsible for. With some guidance.

They work to the tune of one of Harry’s scattered nonsensical playlists. 

He knows it’s late because he can feel the copious glasses of wine beginning to linger on his tired bones. But he’s urged on, like Harry is, by the steady advance of aromas in the air or the subtle rumble of his stomach.

“I’ll be back in one second,” Harry says, about an hour later. “Just keep stirring for two more minutes. Then you can shut it off.”

“Where are you going?”

Harry kisses Louis’ cheek. “You’re doing great,” he says in lieu of an appropriate answer and disappears into the dining room. Louis doesn’t follow him or investigate at all. He suspects it’s a nice surprise and he’s not a monster so he won’t ruin it.

Harry returns just in time to get the duck out of the oven. “Thanks for your help,” he says, taking Louis’ hand. “Your table is ready.”

Louis laughs. “I get a table?”

“Of course, sir.”

The dining room has changed slightly. The lights along the railing leading up to the balcony have been turned on, giving it the look of a Parisian cafe. Harry leads him to a table by the window, overlooking Manhattan. There’s a candle in a small lantern in the center along with green and white hydrangeas in a brushed metal vase. There’s also a bucket of ice with a fresh bottle of wine cooling inside.

Harry pulls a chair out for Louis, fills his wine glass and departs with a somewhat successful wink. When he reappears a moment later, it’s with a large circular tray and their main courses covered in silver domes.

“Definitely the poshest meal I’ve ever had,” Louis says, unfolding his napkin in his lap. Harry sets Louis’ dish in front of him and removes the lid. Steam billows up from the plate, and Louis’ mouth waters at the smell of the duck and the pistou and a million other things he’s forgotten the name of now.

“Hope you like it,” Harry says, nonsensically.

Louis slices into the duck, drags it through the sauce. “Always do,” he says, popping it all into his mouth.

If he could cry on command, he probably would. He puts his fork down and allows himself a second to just taste everything, every spice and herb, every degree of texture and tenderness. He immediately starts in on it again. It’s hearty and earthy. It reminds him of something his own mother has made. Something with completely different flavors, but that settled just as warmly and richly in his heart and his belly. Slowly and unconsciously, he stretches his foot beneath the table, until his ankle is resting purposefully against Harry’s. And he can’t make sense of this either, but he feels closer to him, eating this meal. The way he felt closer to his mum whenever she made a pot of soup. The way Harry must have felt closer to Anne when she made this for the first time.

Louis is sad, but full when it’s gone. Too full for seconds, but he’d try if it were an option. Harry disappears to start the dishwasher and tidy up the kitchen a bit. When Harry returns, Louis has finished his wine and is peering over Manhattan. He’s never been afraid of heights. In fact, it makes him feel alive to stand so high above the city, to see the cars reduced to their twinkling headlights. Harry stands beside him, a few feet away with his hands stuffed into his pockets.

“That was incredible as always,” Louis says. “I think your mum really loves you.”

“Is that what you got from it?” Harry wonders.

Louis got more from the dish than he can articulately put into words. “I tasted love, yeah,” he says. “Not that that makes sense, but— If there was a dish made in my honor, I’d hope someone said the same.”

“I’m on it,” Harry says.

Louis lifts his brows. “Bit heavy for a first date,” he says, fighting a smile.

“First of millions,” Harry says with a shrug. “I mean, not to alarm you, but— I’ve thought about it before. It’s hard not to. I wonder if you’ll like something and then I find myself wanting to make things I know you’d like. Things specifically for you. Is that too much?”

“No,” Louis says, just gazing at him. “Come here.”

Harry takes a playful, gliding step forward. He’s messy haired and bright eyed. A sunbeam of a person. Louis has been existing outside of his warmth for too long. He wants to be enveloped in it. He wants to kiss and be kissed.

He sets his hands on his hips and leans into him, noses brushing before their mouths do.

“Not sick of me yet then?” Harry asks.

Louis ignores him. He’s graduated from flirting aimlessly with this boy. And he’s surpassed chaste kisses with him too. So, it should come as no surprise that, once it starts, the kiss never stops or mellows out. It’s dizzying, not least because they’re pressed against a window over 100 meters above the city.

At first he’s holding Harry’s waist, feeling the thin material of his shirt bunch beneath his palms and then, he slips his hands just beneath the hem. All day, all week, he’s been thinking about this. About his hands on Harry’s feverish skin. Every bit of skin, although this isn’t the right venue for it. It’s unlikely that anyone is looking at them in the neighboring buildings, but this is an eating establishment. Harry’s _ mother’s _ establishment. Louis would feel a little guilty dropping Harry’s trousers here.

He sets his hands on Harry’s stomach. Harry gets the hint, drawing back a little.

“Would you be upset if I said we should save Augustine’s world-class desserts for another time?” Harry asks. “I want to go home.”

“Not too upset, no,” Louis says. “You owe me another four courses anyway.”

+

It’s late and the train going into Brooklyn isn’t exactly crowded, but there’s no space for them to sit together. They stand close, holding onto the same pole in the center of the train, swaying together, swaying apart. If Louis were headed to his own apartment, he’d have to transfer at the next station. But he isn’t headed to his own apartment. The train comes to a stop and the doors open. Louis looks up at the speaker as the conductor announces transfer options. The doors close.

“You missed your stop,” Harry says immediately. He can’t seem to resist.

“Oh, shit,” Louis says. “What ever will I do?”

Harry outright grins, resting his head against the pole. He’s unbearably adorable and adorably smug. Louis can’t decide whether he wants to kiss him or give him an affectionate, but firm slap. Or both. He wants to mess him up. He wants to see him as he saw him too many nights ago, on his knees, sloppy-faced and needy.

“You look like you’re plotting something,” Harry says.

“Oh, I am,” Louis says, happily.

A stranger boards the train, outfitted with a guitar and a harmonica on a neck rack. He greets the entire car and performs a shortened but soulful rendition of Tiny Dancer. Walking to Harry’s building, the song is stuck in their heads and they hum it, and joke about nothing, and stare at the clear night sky. And things are as always. It’s not really until they’re making their way up the stairs that Harry begins to look tense. He grows quiet. He fumbles with his keys.

“You alright?” Louis asks, mildly amused.

Harry gets the door open. He doesn’t bother to turn on the light. He drops his keys on the table by the door. And shuts the door with both hands on either side of Louis’ shoulders.

Louis would laugh at that extreme show of dominance if he weren’t instantly, embarrassingly turned on. If Harry didn’t kiss him right then.

“Someone’s eager,” he says with a tremor in his voice.

“Shut up,” Harry says, miserably. He kisses him again, open-mouthed. Whenever their lips part for a second or two, it starts again. And Louis likes to be kissed that way, relentlessly. But eventually he feels like he’s been underwater for too long, his heart beating too quickly, breathing too shortly, and he draws back. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, echoing Harry earlier. He thinks he’s made it clear, but in case he hasn’t. 

“I know,” Harry says, his head on Louis’ shoulder. It’s too quiet and too tense, just the sound of them trying to catch their breath. “I want you so much, I can’t explain. All the time.”

Louis gets that now more than ever and it’s intoxicating to know it without a doubt. He feels it in Harry’s fingertips pressing into his hips, in Harry’s chest pressed to his, his heart just as wild. Louis is like a siphon, taking the desperation in, sending it back. He feels like he’s melting in the heat of it all and at the same time, there’s a cord running the length of him, pulled tight.

“I want you too,” he says, sliding his hands up beneath the shirt, up his back, smooth aside from an occasional mole, a long-healed scar, the ridges of his shoulder blades. Harry pulls the shirt off, although not before he gets his head stuck in it. It’s a testament to how eager he is. Normally he’s so smooth about it, like in the morning when he’s changing out of the shirt he wore to bed. Louis has to help him now, laughing until his chest hurts. Until his stomach hurts, but in the best way. All bundled with anticipation.

He works the button of Harry’s trousers loose and shoves them down, past his bum. The pants go with them, all of it in a bundle around his ankles. For the second time, it’s too dark for Louis to see as clearly as he wants. So he reaches for him in the dark. “Are you ready to fuck me?”

“Please,” Harry says. “Yes.”

“Yeah, you’ve been waiting long enough,” Louis says, dragging his fist up and down the length of Harry’s cock. It’s almost as tempting to just stand here and jack him until he comes not a foot past his doorway. He starts pulling him towards the bedroom instead, pausing at the living room.

“Have you been sleeping on your couch?”

“Haven’t really been sleeping,” Harry says, as Louis tugs him into the bedroom. “I get back late from the restaurant, go in early the next morning.”

Louis sinks to the bed, pulling Harry along with him. “Would you rather sleep then?”

“No, I would not rather sleep,” Harry says, yanking Louis’ jeans and pants down his legs.

He feels like he’s seen him in a thousand different ways, in a million shades of light. He’s seen him in the rain and in the snow. He’s seen him pleased and miserable. But as he pushes Harry’s hair away from his face and studies him, he thinks he’ll probably not get used to him like this. In the throes of lust. In the dim wanton space between one kiss and the next. Their mouths meet again.

He never wants to get used to it. He’s mystified by the desperate way Harry grinds into him, and the instant need Louis has for him to do it again. He gets a glimpse of them together in Harry’s floor-length mirror, and he’s amazed — by how good they look together, the arch of Harry’s bare back as he tucks his face into Louis’ neck and thrusts his hips into Louis’ again.

Louis slaps him on the bum like he’s tapping out of a boxing match. “You have to stop or I’ll come.”

Harry leaves him to rummage around in his drawer and returns with a condom held between his folded lips, slicking up his fingers already. 

The question of whether they should wait only crosses Louis’ mind once. But they’ve been waiting for months. And maybe Louis has been waiting for Harry his whole life. Harry, his best friend. His favorite person. If they muck this up, the odds of them recovering are good enough. Louis wants this too much to care in the moment. And from the way Harry looks at him, the eager way he slips his finger inside of him, it’s mutual.

“I’m going to ride you,” Louis says. “Can I?”

“Anything, I told you,” Harry says.

“We’ll have to really test that out later.” He gives him another slap on his bum. “Get on your back.”

Harry hurries to do it. He does a “come here” gesture with both hands and Louis laughs, slinging his leg over his hips.

“You’re bloody gorgeous, you know that?” Louis says.

“You should see yourself right now,” Harry counters. “I don’t think there’s a good enough word.”

Louis feels an alarming rush of heat to his cheekbones. “Shut up,” he says.

“That’s what I said to myself too. The first time I saw you. ‘Just shut up. Don’t say anything stupid. Definitely don’t tell him he’s the most gorgeous—‘”

Louis covers Harry’s mouth with his left hand and reaches between them with his right. “See what we can do about keeping you quiet,” he says. Seating himself on Harry’s cock probably isn’t the trick, but it’s what he does next, rocking his hips a bit until the full length is tucked away inside.

He leaves his hand across Harry’s mouth. He likes the way it muffles his groan. When he wants to hear him, he moves his hand to the base of Harry’s throat instead, which is even better, looks even better. “God, you’re pretty like this,” Louis says. It’s the only way to describe him. Sweaty and flushed as he is, hooded eyes and parted lips. 

Harry tips his head back into his pillow, as if he knows that makes him even prettier. His lovely neck collared by Louis’ hand. Louis feels choked up all of sudden. Needing to articulate something for which there are no words.

“So beautiful,” he says. And all his. Mine mine mine, he thinks, like a fucking caveman. It’s true. He feels barbaric. “My boy.”

“Yeah,” Harry says.

Louis splays his hands on Harry’s damp chest, covering his tattoos and his nipples. “Feels so fucking good.”

“So good,” Harry murmurs, running his hands up Louis’ forearms, up his biceps. He touches Louis everywhere like he can’t believe he’s there. Like King Midas must have touched his gold. Like the first man must have touched the moon. Like who could be more lucky than them?

More lucky than Louis with all the time in the world to rock and bounce the way he wants? To pinch Harry’s nipples until he keens and whimpers. 

“Oh my God,” Harry groans, digging his fingers into Louis’ thighs.

Louis he wants to drag it out. To flip them both over and make Harry work for it. Or to just slow down. But he can’t. He starts to move faster, more desperate. Always so desperate where Harry’s involved. How could he have ever thought otherwise?

+

Louis runs his fingers across Harry’s shoulders, skipping from one freckle to another. Pretending any unblemished skin is lava. He wraps a lock of hair around his forefinger as if his finger is a curling rod. Not that Harry needs one.

He can’t stop touching him as it turns out. When he woke ten minutes ago, he immediately placed his hand on Harry’s shoulder and hasn’t lifted it away since. He runs his thumb down the dip of Harry’s spine, hovers at his tailbone, rests his hand on Harry’s bum.

Harry turns his head and looks at him.

“Hey there, baby,” Louis mumbles.

Harry’s smile takes over his whole face. “Morning,” he says, lifting a hand to rub his eyes. “Just had a dream you came to the restaurant. I didn’t know you but I thought you were cute. And I kept bringing you dishes and you were unimpressed with every single thing.”

“Very unrealistic. Was I a food critic?”

“I don’t know. Would’ve been worse if you were. I dated a critic once. Awful.”

“Or maybe you _ do _ have bad taste in people.”

Harry goes pensive suddenly. “Then explain you.”

“I think I’m the exception. Best person you’ve ever met. Best shag of your life, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Harry says, fluffing his pillow, tucking his arms beneath it. 

Louis looks from edge to edge of Harry’s face, from one corner of his smile to the next. For his part, Louis is in extremely good spirits. He feels like he could get out of bed and do anything. He could handle anything. He draws a deep, full breath. “Can I ask you about your ex?”

Apparently, that’s the thing he wishes to tackle.

“Mood killer,” Harry says with a half-hearted laugh. “Can it wait until after breakfast?”

Louis won’t press. It’s not his style. He pinches Harry’s nose like he’s honking a horn. “That works too,” he says, and then struggles to find some other topic that might dominate his thoughts right that instant.

“You’re still thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“I mean, yeah,” Louis admits. “But I’ll forget about it in five minutes, don’t worry.”

“What do you want to know?” Harry asks, carefully.

Everything, Louis wants to say. “How’d you meet? Was he a chef?”

“No. He owns a restaurant in Japan, but… he’s more of a critic.”

“Ah, _ the _ critic.”

Harry smiles grimly. “The very one,” he says. “I met him at a friend’s birthday party. He brought his dog and I was obsessed with her. And then he became like a mentor to me. I was never much of a critic myself until I met him. In order to have taste, you have to dislike things too, you know? So, I guess he taught me to dislike things. Which sounds miserable and most of our relationship was, but—”

“So you started dating right away? While he was teaching you all these things?”

“No. I had a bit of a crush, but no. I don’t really understand how it happened, how things changed. It shouldn’t have happened.”

Immediately, Louis wants to ask why, but Harry breezes on.

“At first, it was exciting, I guess. And then it started to just feel like I was trapped. We were together on and off for about two years.”

That’s longer than any relationship Louis has been in. It’s no fault of his own. He’s moved around a bit, physically and emotionally. He doesn’t blame himself. But still, it’s more history than he’s prepared to contend with. And all that history is packed with common interests and tension and angst. He hates to admit it, even to himself, but it deflates him, just for a moment.

“Did you love him?” he asks to make matters worse.

Harry hesitates. “I did, yeah.”

“And he loved you?”

“He said he did. But I don’t think so.”

Louis lets it all sink in. It’s not fair for him to get moody when he’s the one who asked. He knows Harry is looking at him, antennae up, but Louis peers at a random spot on the bed between them. “Did he ruin Japan for you too? Is that why you left?”

“No,” Harry says quickly. “Not at all. It’s the best place. It’s my favorite place, Louis.”

He tells Louis about bike rides through Imperial Palace grounds and karaoke in neon rooms. A new year or two welcomed in at a nearby shrine and a birthday spent alone in a hi-fi bar, listening to his favorites on vinyl. Getting lost in Electric City. Fly-fishing in Hokkaido and soaking in onsens near Mount Fuji until his skin was pink and pruny. Imbedding himself in the spirit of zakka — the joy of everyday things. He built collections he eventually had to leave behind. He got lost in places he loved but could never find again. He was welcomed into families who have probably forgotten him by now.

And there was ramen for breakfast, lunch and dinner. 

“So much ramen,” Harry says. “It’s impossible to get sick of it. You’d love it there.”

“Maybe we should go,” Louis suggests.

There’s an instant, comical gleam to Harry’s eyes. “Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”

“I’ll give it some more thought, then,” Louis says with a little roll of his eyes, but he shoots a coy smile at him a second later. Harry is palpably joyous and musing all of a sudden as if he’s about to ask Louis to set off with him tomorrow. To Japan or another destination unknown. On a more jarring note, Louis would say yes. Without much thought for his job or his money or his plans, his initial reply would be yes.

“I mean it. I’d go anywhere with you, at least once,” Louis says.

“That’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“I’ve got to step my game up, then. Do you know you’ve got the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen?”

“Oh, God.”

“I feel like I’ve gone stargazing just looking at you.”

Harry pushes his face into his pillow. And Louis watches him, and his slightly pink ears, waiting until Harry lifts his head for air. Their eyes meet again. Louis wasn’t joking about the stargazing bit and he’d tell him so, except Harry smiles like he knows.

“Sorry if I ruined our morning at all by asking about him—” Louis says. “But thank you for telling me.”

“It’s not ruined. I’m still in bed with you, aren’t I?”

“Seems so.”

Harry lifts the blanket slightly. “And you’re still naked under this blanket, aren’t you?”

“I might be,” Louis says, grinning.

Harry peels the blanket down until Louis’ bum is exposed. He kisses him, not on his mouth but his jaw, then the base of his neck. The sheets rustle as he gets on top of Louis, hovering over him. He kisses his shoulder. He must know how effective it is, to move his mouth and hands so cleverly. So slowly in contrast to the quick build of anticipation in Louis’ chest.

He shoots Louis a dimpled smile. “Still a very good morning,” he says.

+

“I’ve never seen your fridge so empty,” Louis says, peeking over Harry’s shoulder. He keeps his arms crossed instead of slipping them around Harry’s waist like he wants to. This is as much space as he’s given him in the last hour. Otherwise, he’s been clingy. Holding on as Harry attempted to get dressed or make coffee. His hands on some part of him at all times, his mouth meeting Harry’s at random.

All that passion from earlier conducts itself into an unabashed and uncontrollable outpouring of affection. Tomorrow, or even in the next hour, it might peter out. For now, Harry basks in it, which doesn’t make it any easier to stop.

But there is the matter of Harry’s fridge to provide a second of distraction. Contained inside is an onion, a large bottle of Sriracha, and a carton of eggs, and not much else. The confusion and concern settle on Louis’ face slowly. “What have you been eating?” he asks.

Harry selects the eggs and digs around for a questionable tomato in the bottom of a drawer. “Mostly ramen. Or like…queso.”

Louis is horrified. “Who are you?”

“Me when I’m not trying to impress you,” Harry says.

“I feel like I’m seeing all your true colors this week. You don’t sleep. You hardly leave the restaurant since it opened. You don’t actually feed yourself properly.”

Harry nods along without protest. “It’s true. I keep your fridge better stocked than mine.”

“But what about the full English that first time? You had _ brioche _.”

“Leftovers from a brunch Claire did the weekend before,” Harry regretfully informs him. “I’ve cooked things for you I’d never cook on a weeknight under normal circumstances. Who sears scallops on a Tuesday?”

“Christ. Is this what it’s going to be like now we’ve sealed the deal?”

Harry sets his cast iron on the stove. “Have we?”

“I assumed so,” Louis says, carefully.

“Well, then, yes,” Harry says. “Ramen and queso for us both. And this frittata.”

He cracks the first egg and gives Louis the same dimpled smile as an hour ago, right before he fucked him, because he knows it won’t matter and Louis isn’t going anywhere. Louis massages a spot on his chest where it feels like his heart is trying to claw and crawl its way out.

He’ll have to tell his mum about this. Not the sex, obviously. Although that’s worth telling someone about. That’s worth shouting from a rooftop about. “I CAME THREE TIMES BEFORE BREAKFAST” or something along similar lines. Granted it’s a late breakfast and the second time he orgasmed it was more of an aftershock, but it mattered. The third was in the shower following a languid handjob and a salon-quality shampoo & condition, all the work of Harry’s steady hands.

“I’m seeing someone worth telling you about,” he might say to his mum. That seems like a good place to start.

In the bedroom, he hears the buzzing of one of their mobiles and hurries to get it. It’s not his mum, which would have been too convenient, but it is Harry’s.

“It’s for you,” Louis says, returning to the kitchen. He sets the mobile in Harry’s palm and returns to the bedroom in search of his own. He’s hoping his 3 o’clock student cancelled, although Brandon can’t afford to miss another lesson. He’d like to stay, if he could. Until Harry leaves for work, at least. Or he could stay until Harry returned later. This is what it’ll be like now. Mornings together, if they’re lucky. Days and nights apart. And then a few hours before bed. About the same as any relationship, he realizes. But that doesn’t mean he can’t be wary about it. Not the ramen and queso, but the dependency… 

“I’m with him now, actually,” he hears Harry say quietly.

Louis halts his search and the mopey debate in his head.

“He’s good, yeah… I’m doing a frittata. Tomato, gruyere— No, he’s not big on spinach.” Harry finally turns and peeks into the bedroom and sees Louis looking. He smiles. “Mum, I should go. I don’t know. I think it’s just all types of spinach. Sure, I’ll try that. Yup, kissy.”

He sets the phone down.

“You just told your mum I don’t like spinach,” Louis says.

Harry laughs, guilty as ever. “No, I said you weren’t big on spinach. That’s different.”

“Thanks, love,” Louis says. “Now she thinks I’m uncultured.”

Harry, of course, laughs harder. Maybe Louis will put off telling his mum a thing about him.

+

On his last week of summer camp and thus his last week at P.S. 238, Louis is melancholic. The other teachers surprised him with cake that morning. He has two handfuls of gift bags to take home and plans for drinks later that week. “It’s not goodbye. It’s see you at the Tony’s,” someone had said. If Louis were the type to have crying fits in toilets, today would be a day for one.

He never fooled himself into thinking this would be all laughs, but he’s sadder than ever and anxious about the next phase of his life and the McDonald’s he treated himself to for lunch doesn’t feel like enough of a treat.

This is the manner in which Harry finds him in his classroom. Barefoot with both legs propped on the corner of his desk. Sipping stone-faced on a McDonald’s smoothie before he starts in on his chicken nuggets and fries. There’s a knock at the door and Louis pauses the random Instagram video on his phone. “Come in,” he says, returning his feet to the floor.

Harry slides the door open and Louis’ stomach does that familiar and unrelenting swan dive. It’s nearly been a whole summer and there’s no sign of the butterflies letting up.

“What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I was nearby.”

“On my last day of school?”

“I thought you might need a pick-me-up. Sandra said I could drop in.”

“You do _ not _ have Sandra’s number.”

“No, we’re friends on Twitter.”

“You can’t have friends on Twitter. You _ can _ have followers.”

“I don’t like how that sounds.” Harry sinks into the chair adjacent to Louis’ desk. He leans forward. “What are you eating?”

“Souvenirs from my life before you.”

“Well, I bought you lunch,” Harry says, placing a paper carry-out bag on Louis’ desk. The word ‘Yuzu’ across the front. “Or you can save it for dinner, if you’d prefer the chicken nuggets.”

“No, I would not prefer the chicken nuggets,” Louis says, digging into the bag. He doesn’t have the Yuzu menu memorized, although he’s been there enough times that it wouldn’t be unlikely. He thinks this might be the fish katsu sandwich. Some other treats are tucked inside. The dumplings Louis likes, based on the smell. A dessert — probably the cheesecake. Louis tilts his head back and sighs, happily.

“Thank you,” he says, leaning in to kiss him. “What would I do without you?”

“We’ll never know,” Harry says, grinning. “Where’s your class?”

“Don’t have one for another hour.”

So, Harry stays a while, drawing Louis’ foot into his lap, complaining about a very rude vendor that they might have to stop working with.

“I can always come by and sort it, if you want.”

Harry laughs. “It’s okay. I’ll sort it.” He kneads his thumb into Louis’ heel, always so good with his hands, no matter what he’s doing. It’s so nice and so distracting, Louis nearly misses how his tone changes.

“I came to talk to you about something else, too,” Harry says.

“And you brought me lunch beforehand?” Louis asks, peering at his food in a new light. “I’m terrified.”

Harry’s lips twitch. “Tyler’s wedding is coming up really soon. Less than two months now.”

“You mentioned it a while back.”

“Right, well, originally I was just going to London for that. But my mum’s in Brittany for the summer and she’s been begging me to see her. So I agreed to spend a few days there and then on to London.”

“Sounds busy.” And long. A long, long time for them to be apart.

“Yeah, it will be,” Harry says, cracking his right knuckles. “I’ve been putting off asking because I don’t know if it’s too soon, but—”

He stops there, looking at Louis as if Louis is meant to interpret the rest. And Louis has. Right away, his whole chest swells and he sets both feet on the floor.

But he needs Harry to say it anyway.

“Is there a chance you’d come with me?” Harry asks. “And be my date to the wedding?”

“And meet your mum,” Louis clarifies, which is the newest and most pressing detail of all.

“Yes.”

To be honest, Louis wanted an invitation to the wedding. Not because he’s itching to go, but because the gesture holds a lot of weight. He just never expected the invitation to come like this, with a trip to Brittany attached. Now that he thinks about it, Anne would likely be attending the wedding herself, so meeting her was always inevitable. But to do so in her own home, in her childhood home, in the home where many a photo or video shoot have taken place, seems huge.

“You _ want _ me to meet your mum?” Louis asks.

“She wants to meet you,” Harry says. “But yeah, I do.”

“Well, fuck.”

“You can say no. Obviously. I know it’s short notice. My mum insisted on buying the tickets, so it would all be paid for, but I know you’ve got stuff for the show coming up, so I’d understand,” Harry rambles, and then stops, drawing a breath. “I really, really want you to come. It’ll be a whole lot more fun if you do.”

“Then I’m there,” Louis says.

There was never another answer.

Harry exhales, eyes slipping shut. “Thank, fuck. Thank you,” he says. He scooches forward, dropping his head in Louis’ lap. “Thank you.”

Louis smiles, pushing his hand through Harry’s hair. “Don’t have to thank me. It’ll be fun.”

Harry’s voice is muffled. “Now, it will be, yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh! I hope if you‘re reading and you’re from Brittany, you will forgive me for butchering your cuisine like this. I’m just inventing dishes and throwing things together that would probably taste great, but could very well be horrendous? same goes out to my Japanese readers. have patience with me, fam.


	7. Chapter 7

“Où sont les toilettes?” Louis repeats on his way to his gate. He hears a ding in his earphones, which means his language app has deemed his pronunciation satisfactory and he’s one step closer to successfully locating the toilets while in France. He took French for two years in secondary school, had a very kind instructor who was patient and thorough, but he can’t remember much now beyond random words and phrases. 

“Comment vous appelez-vous?” the non-threatening French woman prompts.

Louis dodges a sweaty businessman speeding down the terminal. He sees Gate 22 ten feet away and Harry is there, slouching in a seat with a tray of tea in his lap. 

“Comment vous appelez-vous?” the woman repeats. Is it Louis’ imagination or does she sound impatient?

“Comment vous appelez-vous?” Louis says to her and Harry both. Ding!

Harry smiles. “A bit formal, but je m’appelle Harry.”

“Je m’appelle Louis,” Louis says. The app honks at him because it’s not what she asked him to repeat. He removes his earphones entirely. “How do you say it informally?”

“Comment tu t'appelles?” Harry says, extending a tea to Louis. “We’ll be at my mum’s most of the time, you know? You probably won’t need to know much French.”

“But then how will I know when you and your mum are talking about me?”

“You won’t,” Harry says, serenely.

Louis takes the seat beside him. “We’ll see, Frenchy.”

“I was born in Cheshire.”

“Yeah, but you’re my French boy,” Louis says, patting his knee. “Don’t fight it.”

“Does that get you going?”

“Oh, yeah.” Louis sips his tea. “You and your three languages.”

Harry rests his head on Louis’ shoulder. “Noted. Toki ga kitara watashi o okoshite. Mon amour.”

“I know that last bit,” Louis says.

Harry smiles, sinking further into his seat. “I said wake me when it’s time to go.”

+

When they land in Rennes, there’s a car waiting to drive them an hour to Saint Alban. As soon as they’re clear of the industrial city centre and off the motorway, there’s brine in the air and long stretches of quaint roads and squat coastal homes. They keep the windows down, their faces tilted towards the wind and sun. The ocean appears and disappears frequently as the elevation changes, but the smell of it is constant.

Anne’s summer home is at the end of a private tree-lined road. It’s not as overwhelming as Louis expected. Large, definitely, but with its oatmeal-coloured stones and aqua blue shutters, it’s charming too. There’s ivy climbing the sides and flowered bushes all around, fresh-cut grass and bulbous trees. There is a large circular pond in the centre of the drive, its water dark green. The car rounds the pond and then comes to a stop directly in front of the door. 

A wreath of lavender and blue tansy shakes slightly as the door is opened. First to appear, and not shy at all, is a shaggy black-haired dog. He runs straight for Harry and Harry sinks to the ground to meet him.

“Hello, Sam,” he says as the dog rolls onto its back and Harry rubs his tummy.

Sam quickly remembers that there is a stranger in his presence and his attention diverges. He’s on Louis the next instant, big paws on his chest. Louis regains his balance as best as he can. He has no choice. Either that or God forbid, he should disappoint Sam and fall out of his favour for the rest of his trip.

“_ Sam _,” someone calls, firmly.

And then the dog is gone, scurrying back towards the house and loitering at Anne’s feet. She steps into the sunlight, wearing a button-down shirt tucked into breezy trousers, sleeves rolled. Her long dark hair is loose and free, held back by shades that she pulls on when the sun hits her face.

“Hi, Mum,” Harry says.

“Hi, darling,” she says, opening her arms. She pulls him close and kisses his cheek twice. She squeezes his face for an instant, as if to ensure that he's real and healthy and won’t disintegrate before her.

Harry reaches a hand back, wiggles his fingers, and Louis takes it. “This is Louis,” he says, tugging him in.

Anne smiles. “Nice to finally meet you, Louis.”

“It’s really nice to meet you,” Louis says. “My mum’s a big fan. Me too, obviously.”

“Harry might’ve mentioned that,” she says, beaming. “He talks about you _ all _ the time. Every chance he gets.”

“Alright,” Harry says. “You ask!”

“And then you just go on and on.”

She’s not at all what Louis expected. On-screen, she’s quite serious, and maybe that side of her is soon to be seen in person. But for now, she smiles a lot and has warm hands and puts her right on Harry’s shoulder and her left on Louis’ and walks them into the house. The foyer is breezy with white beams running the ceiling and windows at every turn left open. Dark wood floors and a herbal unnamable scent all around them.

“You two should get settled,” Anne says, removing her shades and tucking them back into her hair. “I invited a few people over.”

Harry is amicably expressionless, but Louis knows better. He detects a subtle shift in the mood. To her credit, Anne seems to as well. She gives him a look. “You only come here once a year,” she says. “There are people who want to see you. And I told you Gemma was flying in.”

“Gemma’s different. I _ want _ to see Gemma. Not the entire hamlet.”

“So dramatic.”

“I would’ve checked first.”

“If I had checked, you would have said no.”

“Maybe, but at least I’d have a choice. Tomorrow would’ve been good too,” Harry says. “Louis is really tired.”

Louis actually isn’t. And even if he were, he’d deny deny deny. He wants no part of this.

“Not everyone was free tomorrow,” Anne says. “I promise it’ll be a short lunch. Is that alright with you, Louis?”

“Should be fun, yeah,” Louis obviously says. “I’m starving.”

Anne looks at Harry, brows raised. “See? I have a peach and rhubarb pie in the oven.”

Louis has never had peach and rhubarb pie, but “Sounds great,” he says. 

Minutes later in the bedroom, Harry reports: “She knows peach and rhubarb is my favourite. Very dirty trick.”

“I think you two are cute,” Louis says, dispensing his duffle by the wardrobe. “And she’s great.”

“And pushy?”

“No more than any mum.”

“You just haven’t seen it yet,” Harry says. “Honestly, if you’re not feeling up to a lunch party, you don’t have to come. Also if it gets to be too much here, there’s a bed and breakfast down the road that everyone loves.”

“I _ like _ it here. I’ll tell you if I don’t, but it’d be rude if I did,” Louis says. He plops down on the bed. “I take it we’re sharing this bed?”

“We are,” Harry says, joining him. “My grandad’s a little conservative, though.”

“We’ll have to be extra quiet then,” Louis says, leaning in.

Harry falls into the bed, taking Louis along with him. The duvet is soft and smells of cotton and inexplicably, like the sun, as if it was hung to dry for too long. Louis runs his mouth across Harry’s, teasing him, robbing him of the chance he wants to deepen the kiss. Harry grumbles, miserably.

“Hey,” Louis says. “Your grandad might hear.”

There’s a knock at the door and Louis sits upright, drawing his knees up to his chest. Harry gets to his feet. “Yes?” he calls, tugging the door open ajar.

“You’re not napping, are you?” Anne asks. “I thought maybe you’d want to help me finish lunch. Might get it done more quickly.”

“Sure, I’m right behind you,” Harry says. He shoots a cross-eyed look at Louis and slips out of the room.

Of course, they’re not on a romantic getaway together. That’ll come someday, but Harry has familial obligations here. It’s all new and interesting for Louis, but maybe not for him. That said, the thrill doesn’t die down. Louis lasts ten seconds, lying there alone, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily. The room is at the corner of the house and has four windows and a small balcony, providing a lovely view no matter where he’s standing or sitting. And it’s nice but he’s so restless and suddenly the last thing he wants is to be indoors.

He sneaks past the kitchen, though Anne and Harry are preoccupied, rubbing cuts of meat down with herbs or drizzling olive oil over a tray of greens. They’re speaking in French, but Louis swears he hears his name at least once on his way to the door.

He doesn’t go far. Just to the back of the house because he’s curious. Green grass stretches on and on, surrounded on all sides by more trees. In one corner, there’s a lush garden and a small barn beside it that’s being overtaken by climbing pink roses. A gravel pathway leading towards the orchard in another corner. A few lounge chairs are placed in the centre of the lawn near an outdoor dining table.

The barn, where Louis strolls over to first, is home to a horse and two goats. He spies telltale markings on the barn door and, upon closer inspection, sees ‘Gemma’ and ‘Harry’ beside faded lines of yellow paint, then ‘6 ans’, ‘7 ans’ and so forth until ‘16 ans’ where it stops.

Louis finally parks it on one of the lounge chairs in the sun and lies down, hands on his tummy. Here, he falls into a half-sleep and dreams mostly about Harry. About Harry as a kid. About him and his favourite goat. About his hands and cheeks sticky with fresh rhubarb and peach pie. He dreams about himself here too, in an altered past. The neighbourhood boy who Harry instantly befriends until they are both older and headed off to uni and acknowledge they might have loved each other all along.

“Hey,” he hears.

It’s a half-sleep, so it takes half the effort to wake him. He turns and peers up at Harry standing over him, blocking out the sun.

“What were you dreaming about?”

“You,” Louis says, easily. He runs his hand up Harry’s bare calf. “And lunch.”

Harry smiles. “It’ll be ready in a few minutes,” he says. “My sister’s here. Do you want to meet her?”

“Of course I want to meet your sister,” Louis says, extending his hand, which Harry takes and helps him up.

+

In a move Louis should’ve predicted, Gemma sparks up a spliff after lunch. It’s unclear when it appears or where it comes from — if it’s been in either of their pockets the whole time or concealed in a hidey-hole somewhere. (He finds out later that Gemma and Harry have been stashing goods for occasions such as these since childhood.)

Louis won’t pass up a high on his best day, but when Harry takes his hand and leads him outside and into a shady corner of the house, he’s all too happy to escape the attention inside. Even the cats have been staring at him, sniffing his toes and ankles.

Lunch itself was delicious and he felt privileged to even be eating it. To butter fresh sourdough that Anne made that morning or to spear a parsnip she picked from her garden. At one point, she makes a comment that she left the spinach out of the salad, and Louis shoots Harry a pointed look that he pretends not to see. It’s good food. It’s _ great _ food. But it doesn’t make the conversation around the table flow any more smoothly.

Harry’s grandparents live in the home year-round and oversee the maintenance of the orchard. Of the guests who arrive that afternoon, there‘s: Harry’s aunt, Sarah, and her husband, the duke named Franc; Gemma and her daughter, Hannah the Notorious Banana; the man who owns the vineyard nearby named Victor who Anne may or may not be dating and Abelard, his son. Also, Harry’s half-brother, Charles.

They are all very curious about Louis, about his home life, and his New York life — ‘an actor?’, they say, sounding endeared. They’re probably a little curious about his choice of attire, too — a beige knit jumper with a small hole in the elbow, very dissimilar to their designer watches and jackets. Louis would have changed into something nicer if Harry gave him a heads up, but Harry is wearing an old cardigan too, a white T-shirt that’s been stretched and worn over time, and ripped denim shorts.

With the spliff cradled precariously between her polished nails, Gemma suggests a bit of footy and the three of them kick a ball around the lawn, uncoordinated and jovial. There are no rules, but after Louis slides the ball past them a few times, he’s declared the winner. And then, they all sink to the grass, staring at the sky and a bundle of clouds in the distance that appear to be harbingers of rain.

“I should go check on Hannah,” Gemma says, groggily.

“Banana,” Louis and Harry say at the same time, then look at each other, crinkly-eyed.

“Not the boyfriend too,” Gemma says. “You know she’s started calling herself Banana. Sometimes she won’t answer me if I call her anything else.”

Louis and Harry laugh, boisterously and uncontrollably, as Gemma gets to her feet. She gives Harry a playful kick in his leg. “Enjoy, arseholes.”

+

It’s unclear how long they lie there for. Distantly, Louis hears calls of ‘Adieu’ and then the cars pulling away, and he doesn’t feel too bad about not saying bye himself because he suspects they’ll all be back later in the week. The exhaustion of travel is starting to weigh in when Harry asks, “Want to go for a bike ride?” 

Louis tilts his head towards him. “Right now?”

“Sun won’t set for another hour or two,” Harry says. He stands and holds his hands out for Louis to take. 

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” Louis says, taking his hands, and he’s once again tugged to his feet. The bikes are covered and propped against a wall inside the barn. Harry takes the teal one that belonged to Gemma and Louis takes Harry’s old silver bike with a basket at the front.

The soil between the apple trees is packed enough that it’s easier to ride on. The apples are just about ready for picking and Louis is reminded again that it’s a year now since he met Harry. It feels like it’s taken a long time for them to get where they are now, but in reality, things have evolved quickly for them. Only a year and look where it’s brought him, biking on Harry’s ancestral ground.

“Gemma was conceived in that lighthouse over there,” Harry says, slowing.

Louis laughs. “Romantic, I’ll say that. That where you had your first time too?”

Harry smiles at him. “Nope, that was in London. I got a blowjob around here one summer, though.”

“Did you?” Louis says. “Where? Show me.”

Harry looks at him suspiciously, but does as requested, the two of them discarding their bikes in the grass. They walk for a bit and come to a stop. “Can’t remember exactly, but I think it was here,” Harry says, stepping close to Louis. He points out toward the horizon. “Perfect view of the lighthouse through the trees.”

It’s true that the lighthouse in the distance stands right between the clearing. Louis faces Harry and puts a hand flat on his stomach, backing him against the nearest apple tree.

“Does anyone come out here?” he asks.

“Not till morning.”

“So if we snog, no one will see us?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

“Are you as excited now as you were then?” He watches Harry’s Adam’s apple bob and kisses him there. “With that boy?”

“I think a bit more than back then.”

“Good.” Louis presses his thigh between Harry’s legs and confirms as much. Harry kisses him first. On instinct, Louis lets his lips part and the kiss deepens in the effortless way it always does with them. He pushes Harry back when he starts to take over, leaning in too much.

“Stay,” Louis says.

Harry licks his smiling lips. “What’s next? Sit?”

“Yes, actually,” Louis says, nodding towards the ground.

Harry hesitates as if he isn’t sure Louis is serious. Louis nods again at the ground and Harry finally sinks to his bum, knees drawn up to his chest. He peers up at him patiently.

“Good boy.”

Harry laughs, resting his head against the tree. “And now a bone?”

“Definitely that,” Louis says, straddling him. He kisses him again, cupping his jaw, tilting his head so he can kiss his neck. Harry smells of his tobacco-scented cologne, of mint and faintly of petrichor. It’s his smell and the smell of his home. He climbs off of him, pushing Harry’s knees further apart, lowering himself between them. He kisses his stomach. He pushes his hand up beneath his shirt to toy with a nipple. And then, the winning tactic: he skips over Harry’s erection altogether, and presses a kiss to his thigh. 

Harry draws a sharp breath. “What are you doing to me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” Louis says, blowing cool air over a damp kiss, over golden hairs caught in crepuscular light. He has decided actually and it’s just as he unbuttons Harry’s shorts that those clouds he’d seen earlier burst at their seams above them.

“Fuck,” Harry whines. He buttons his shorts and yanks his T-shirt down. They rush back to their bikes and then a quarter of the way, decide to abandon them because the ground has turned muddy. It’s a loud, angry torrent that sees them both dashing towards the house, puddles erupting beneath their feet. By the time the house comes into view, they’re laughing at the absurdity of it all. Still laughing when they make it inside and tiptoe past Harry’s grandparents. Still giggling when they reach the bedroom.

Harry peels his shirt off and it lands with a wet slap on the hardwood floors. “You want the shower first?” he asks.

“You go,” Louis says, and then Harry shoves his pants and shorts to the floor as well. Louis has an immediate change of heart. “Or not—”

Backing into the en suite, Harry smiles, coy and crooked.

“Is it big enough for two?” Louis asks, peeling his shirt off.

“I can make room,” Harry says.

Louis hurries to get his feet out of his damp socks and catch up with him. He pauses to lock the bedroom door because he’s rightfully paranoid. Harry is leaning into the spray to wet his hair when Louis joins him. “Is it hot enough?” he asks, wiping water from his eyes.

Louis has to laugh, looking at him from head to toe. “It’s pretty hot.”

“Too hot?” Harry asks with genuine concern.

Louis rolls his eyes. “I’m talking about you.”

“Oh.” And then, a smile. “Well, thank you.”

Louis steps closer, slipping his arms around his waist.

Harry pouts, looking at the negative space between them. “We can’t fool around in here.”

“Why not?” Louis asks. “Your grandparents are _ downstairs _.”

“They’ve got great hearing,” Harry says, tempering a laugh. He selects a green bottle from off the tub floor. “I’ll wash your hair, though.”

+

In the morning, they go for a lengthy walk along the beach that turns into a jog that turns into a race. Sam makes fools of them both, dashing ahead of them every time and then dashing back in pity. They play with a frisbee for a bit and the water is never any less frigid when they have to go chasing after it, but it gets Louis’ blood pumping. For a place that can be so drowsy and overcast, he has more energy here than he does some days in New York.

Jogging back to keep warm, they return to the house just as drenched as yesterday. Sweat and seawater making their t-shirts cling to them. “Wait here,” Harry says before Louis can follow him into the house. “I want to show you something.”

He takes Sam back inside while Louis lingers by the pond, still trying to catch his breath. Harry returns a second later, nodding towards the corner of the house. He pauses at the pipe near the garden, gets the water flowing and takes a greedy gulp, then holds it out for Louis who does the same. They wet their faces, wash sand away from their skin, and drink until their thirst is quenched.

“Come on,” Harry says, shutting the pipe off.

“Where are we going?”

Harry gives him a look that says, ‘you’ll see’.

They arrive at a wooden door at the side of the house that Louis hasn’t noticed until now. There’s a keypad that Harry punches a set of numbers into. “This is where they stash the goods,” he says, pushing the door in, giving Louis another tug inside. The same stones of the home’s exterior line the walls here with wooden racks embedded in them and bottles upon bottles of golden cider stored and gleaming in the faint overhead lights. Harry kisses him right there against the stone. Both hands on Louis’ chest, then sliding down his chest. He dips into the crook of Louis’ neck, lips on his collarbones.

“Did you bring me in here just to snog?”

“Maybe,” Harry sing-songs.

“Is it just your family’s cider in here?” Louis asks, his attention split between Harry’s tender work and all the bottles, clay and glass, running the walls before them.

“No,” Harry says, lifting his head. “My mum collects some stuff. Fancy stuff. There’s like a bottle in here worth a couple grand.”

“That’s the one I want.”

Harry snorts, taking his hand, leading him further inside. “They keep a few bottles from each year. The ones that my great-great-grandparents bottled are over there,” he says, nodding off to a corner of the cellar as he comes to a stop in front of a different rack. “These are the ones from the year I was born.”

“Oh, maybe we should get into that instead,” Louis says. He’s curious to know more without any concrete questions to ask. He realises, as he’s studying the bottles, Harry is studying him. His brows crease. “What?”

“I’m just really happy you’re here,” Harry says.

Louis smiles. “I’m happy I’m here too,” he says. “Your family’s interesting. Especially the ones yesterday.”

“You don’t hate them, do you?”

“Of course not. Do _ you _ hate them?”

“No. But they can be kind of snobbish. Old-fashioned. I’m thirty-years-old and they probably expected me to have a wife and children by now.”

“Instead you brought your boyfriend ‘round from New York. Who’s British, not French, despite his name,” Louis adds, harkening back to Harry’s granddad asking him where he was from. ‘Doncaster,’ Louis said, and the old man’s face had fallen.

Louis laughs. “Huge disappointment.”

“Huge,” Harry agrees. His smile dissipates slightly. “I don’t hate any of them. I just don’t want you to hate them.”

“Well, I don’t. They’re all responsible for you being here, existing, aren’t they?” Louis asks. “How could I?”

“Wow. You’ve gone so soft over the summer.”

“Fuck off,” Louis says, laughing. “I might’ve.”

“You admit it!”

“Yeah, you might have gotten me,” Louis says, pressing a hand to his chest, feeling around as if to make sure everything is intact. “Heart might be a little soft.”

Harry pulls Louis even closer, cupping his elbows. Louis does the same. He gets that they’re having a moment, but also, he’s hard. And has been since Harry started sneaking him around. It’s either because of the wine cellar or Harry in the amber lights overhead or the fact they’re finally, completely alone. Who knows? If Harry draws him any closer, he’ll feel it, but Louis will deal with that if and when it happens.

“I’m going to have to take over all of this someday, me and Gemma,” Harry says.

“I really hit the jackpot. Boyfriend’s got a whole estate to inherit.”

Harry looks chuffed as he draws Louis in that last step, their crotches meeting. He lifts his brows. “Oh? What’s this?” he says. “Not soft at all.”

“Your sweat is making you fucking glow in here,” Louis says. “And you’re swinging your orchard around. What do you expect?”

Harry outright cackles. “Well, we’re alone.”

“And there’s no rain,” Louis adds.

“Or grandparents in the next room.”

Louis pushes Harry’s damp hair away from his forehead and kisses him. “Think we should pick up where we left off yesterday,” he says, untying the drawstring of Harry’s shorts. He doesn’t want to waste time. He kisses him once more and then, he sinks to his knees, grasping Harry’s hips, holding him steady. He licks through the patch of damp hair leading down from Harry’s navel. And then, without pause, he takes his cock into his mouth.

Harry slumps a bit against the wall behind him, sighing. He laughs again, breathless.

Louis peeks at him, licking his lips. “What are you giggling about?”

“I wasn’t allowed in here for years, you know? When I was younger,” Harry says. He gasps when Louis takes another lick of him. His stomach contracts, as he breathes raggedly. “Look at me now.”

Louis smiles. “Definitely have to pop a bottle then. After you finish in my mouth.” He wets his forefinger in his mouth, then reaches around, prodding at Harry’s hole. The first time he did this, while Harry fucked him, Harry came in seconds, shivering so badly Louis was momentarily concerned. Harry groans and whimpers now, sinking further, spreading his legs a bit further. Louis slides his mouth around him, as far as he can go.

Harry laughs again, a light airy sound, as Louis fingers him and sucks him off. It’s a jubilant melodic sound, like he wants to start vocalizing. He shoves his hands into Louis’ hair.

Distantly, Louis thinks he hears a crack of thunder. Like a relic from yesterday’s late summer storm. As relentless as Louis, devoting all his intent and all his focus to Harry. His jaw starts to ache but he only pauses to draw a deep breath before he goes again.

“I can’t,” Harry says, leaning forward, like he might crumple into a ball. “I’m going to come.”

And he doesn’t last a minute more before coming and then sinking to the ground, naked bum, trembling knees. Louis sits back on his haunches just watching him, smiling. “Good?”

“So good,” Harry says. “Now me.” And he lets his tongue loll free. 

Louis laughs. He doesn’t need to be asked or told twice. 

Harry does crack a bottle open afterwards. There are no cups, but they don’t need them, passing the bottle back and forth, with the lights hanging above them like erstwhile stars. 

+

Their week in Saint Alban flies by. And it’s due, in part, to how much fun Louis has. He tries to force space between Harry and himself, so that Anne can spend time with him, and comes to enjoy the moments he has alone, searching for things to do. He goes for jogs and he rides Harry’s bike and he makes friends with one of the ladies who tends the land. He does a Facetime with his mum on one of his walks with Sam and she’s quite literally speechless the entire time.

The food is always good and plentiful, and he looks forward to wine drunk naps after lunch, especially the ones with Harry, them and their food babies sprawled across the mattress. They sleep. A lot. They travel to Saint-Malo one afternoon just to sleep, lying on the beach after a picnic until their shoulders and the backs of their legs are worryingly pink.

On their last day, they head back to Rennes for breakfast and a bit of sight-seeing. Anne comes along, which turns out to be nice. He can’t get a solid read on her at all and he can’t remember what he truly thought of her before coming here. He remembers being vaguely intimated by her as others often seem to be in her presence. That seems absurd to him now. It’s easy to see a person in an unfriendly light without having met them. The act of meeting them, of looking them in the eye, adds another layer to square with. Like the tangibility in and of itself is a layer.

The fact is she’s hot and cold. Suspicious and gregarious. She seems like one of those eggshell mothers. You never know when you’ll step on the wrong spot and ruin the peace. But she and Harry are also alike in how taciturn they can be. How quick-witted and sarcastic at times. He isn’t like that with Louis in New York, but he is with his mother.

Their first stop is a little cafe with an artful half-timbered facade and big, copious windows and brimming lattes with petals of lavender sprinkled on top. Harry and Anne order for the table because the waiter doesn’t speak much English. Louis is both disappointed and relieved that he doesn’t have to put any of his newly acquired French to use. A pitcher of mimosas and several shared plates later, they take a tourist’s stroll for Louis’ sake. It’s a bit like something out of a fairytale — the shiny cobblestone roads and buildings with colours so rich, Louis thinks of building blocks from a child’s toy chest.

They stop at the old cathedral and city hall and then it’s on to the food market. “The second-largest in France,” Anne mentions. She looks like she could be hosting a food documentary as she ushers them around in her billowy red dress, speaking excitedly about various spices, encouraging Louis to try the _ galette sausage _ with the goat cheese.

She’s recognized by a few people at the market and graciously accepts free cheese and free bread. “For your boys,” the fromager says, gesturing towards Harry and Louis, and Anne laughs and thanks him and orders Harry to take a picture of them using the man’s iPhone. Then she asks a stranger to take another picture of them all, Louis included.

They leave with a bottle of wine Harry purchased and a bundle of flowers Louis purchased for Harry and Anne. It should be noted that he’s tipsy by that point but would do it again sober for how happy they both look strolling along the Vilaine with their tiny bouquets in hand.

Barges and ducks dot the river’s surface. The city’s reflection is just as alluring as the city itself. Everything is perfect and Louis isn’t sure he’ll ever be ready to leave. 

At Thabor Park, they recline on a patch of grass to finish off their bottle of wine and their cheese. In the distance, a live band plays a soft, soporific tune. It takes full effect on Harry, who leans his head against Louis’ shoulder and promptly begins to snooze.

Louis presses a kiss to his forehead and drapes his arm around his waist. It is instinctive and natural and it isn’t until he looks up and meets Anne’s gaze that he’s even conscious he’s done it.

Anne sits barefoot across from them, a smile softened by rosé and late summer sun on her face. “Should I call for the car?” she asks.

Louis returns her smile. “Yeah, I think this one’s had enough.”

+

Louis loosens his hold on Harry, allowing him to slump onto the mattress. He rearranges his legs and looks at him pitifully. 

“I think I just need like two minutes and I’ll be fine,” Harry mutters, face smushed against his pillow.

“Think you might need more than two minutes, love.”

Harry mumbles something unintelligible. Then asks, “Did you have fun?”

Louis ruffles his hair. “Yeah, I had fun,” he says. He plops a kiss on his forehead. “I’ll wake you when it’s time for dinner.”

He considers joining him for a nap, but he’s restless yet again. He knows he’ll pay for all his excess energy eventually — probably when he’s back in NY and struggling to return to normalcy — but he leaves the bedroom and slips down the stairs. Harry’s grandparents are in their armchairs as usual. Anne is in the kitchen, already prepping for dinner, shaping a mound of dough she left to rise. He hasn’t fully decided whether he wants her to see him when she looks up and smiles.

“Do you need anything?” she asks.

“No, no, I’m good,” he says.

“How about a beer?”

He detects that if he turns down this offer, several more will follow. “Sure,” he says. “Thanks.”

She gets him a beer and sets it on the counter. He realizes suddenly that he’s just trapped himself. He can’t very well take the beer and leave the room. So he sits down at the counter. He hears a happy squeal nearby and spots Hannah in the room off the kitchen. 

“Used to be my playroom when I was a girl,” Anne says. “Had it all to myself.”

“My sisters would’ve loved that. If they had a playroom, they’d have to share it with me.”

“Older sisters?”

“Younger, but they turn more and more into my mum every day. It’s getting harder to tell.”

“You don’t sound bothered at all,” Anne says, smiling. She finishes with the dough and slides it into the oven. Then gets herself a beer as well and pops it open. “I’m happy you came. Harry gets antsy when he’s here. I don’t know how much he’s told you but he never really looked forward to coming every summer. And I suspect he still feels that way.”

“I don’t think he’d bring me if he didn’t think I’d have a good time. Or doesn’t have a good time himself,” Louis says.

“Well, when he was in Japan, he never found time to visit. But he was distracted, so—” Anne shrugs. “He seems to be doing better about that.”

“About what, exactly?”

Anne gestures at him. “Dating people and keeping his head on. Seemed to have a hard time of that when he was younger, when he was with Jon.” She tosses her hair off her shoulder in a move that seems unbothered and cool, despite what she’s saying, despite how heavy Louis’ chest feels.

It’s not a thing to discuss while Harry sleeps upstairs. Or to discuss ever so long as Harry isn’t here to defend himself. As much as Louis wants to know more about Japan. About _ Jon _. He doesn’t want her to be the one to tell him.

“You can’t imagine the stupid shit I did when I was younger,” Louis says. “Wouldn’t even know where to start.”

Anne studies him for a second, a small smile on her face. “As long as it’s in the past, I guess,” she says, resting her cheek on her fist. “That’s what matters. I’m no good at that. I never have been. After I left Harry and Gemma’s father, for instance. I spent most of my time at the restaurant. But when I did try to move on, to someone else, it felt as though I was stuck in the past. Harry is a lot like me. It’s why we often disagree. It comes from caring too much. Feeling too much. You always get stuck.”

She has a sip of her beer and peeks at the oven. In that half-second, Louis regains control of his facial expression. He can’t really help himself. “And you think Harry’s stuck?”

“He was, at least. As far as I know, Jon was focused on his own career. He’s a critic on all those food shows. I knew it. And Tyler knew it. That man did not want the same things as Harry. Didn’t want anything sticky. But Harry can’t help himself. He can’t stop himself once he starts. Loving someone. That’s something to keep in mind.”

“Is this meant to scare me?” Louis asks.

“Doesn’t it?”

“Not at all.”

Anne laughs. “You wouldn’t admit it to me, even if it did.”

“Probably not. And you don’t know me well enough to know when I’m being honest, but I am.” He shrugs. “I don’t want someone who’s perfect. Who controls all their emotions. That sounds stiff to me. I just want someone who’s honest. And he’s honest with me.”

“About everything?”

Louis sighs. Suddenly he could use a nap himself. If her plan was to exhaust him, she’s done it. “About as much as I need to know right now,” he says. He slides the beer away. “I’m really not thirsty, but thank you. Might just go for a walk.”

“I’ll drink both,” Anne says, placidly. 

“Enjoy,” Louis says, slipping out of the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> disclaimer: i use google translate.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep extending the chp count, but it's definitely going to be no more than 10 chps. Might potentially still be 9 chps, although I do hate ending on an odd number past 5...lol.
> 
> Also! Another shout out to Joslyn, for whom this fic was written, for bringing me a pack of butter when I ran out during isolation and for generally being the best person alive.
> 
> Very happy you all are enjoying the fic. Sending you much love! ALL my love!!

They’re back in Rennes the next day, miraculously on time after struggling to get a proper start that morning. When they arrive, it’s with forty minutes to spare only to find out that their flight has been delayed by a storm in Burgundy. They’re huddled sleepily together while Harry polishes off a cup of yoghurt and Louis watches folks drift by.

He waits until Harry is finished to say, “I think I might’ve gotten into a tiny row with your mum.”

Harry halts his spoon scraping around the glass jar. To be fair, Louis didn’t think there was anything left.

“Yesterday?” Harry asks, shocked.

“Yeah. But it’s really hard to tell. I was definitely annoyed.”

“I _ told _ you,” Harry says. He’s nonsensically pleased. Palpably vindicated. “What’d she have to say?”

“Nothing specific. Just felt like she was trying to test me. Test how much I know about you.”

Harry chews his top lip. “I think you know a lot about me.”

“I think so too,” Louis says, and Harry resumes eating. “She mentioned Jon?”

Harry’s spoon halts again, this time right before his mouth. Really, the jar should be empty by now.

“It’s the first time I’ve even heard his name,” Louis says. And he hates that hearing the man’s name felt so monumental. That any of this has become a bigger deal than it should be. “I just wish you’d been the one to tell me. I mean, apparently, he’s famous!”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“Well, what _ would _ you say?” Louis asks. “I’d rather hear it from you.”

Harry gives up on the yoghurt. “He’s on TV sometimes,” he offers. “Do you watch Chopped?”

“Sometimes.”

“Well, you might recognize the name if I say.”

Louis waits, bracing himself.

“It’s Jon Hira. Sometimes people call him Jonny.”

Louis thinks back to episodes he’s watched in the past with his mum. He can vaguely picture the man’s face in his head. “I’ll be honest, I never liked him.”

“Yeah, he can be an arsehole, for sure,” Harry says. He looks at him warily. “I’m sorry about my mum.”

“It’s alright,” Louis says, shrugging. “I just get the sense she doesn’t fully trust you to make good decisions or something. Like I could be a bad decision and it’s up to her to tell you so. Or she’s testing how much _ I _ trust you. And all I know is that I do. I trust you. I try not to think about all the extra shit. It’s me and you at the end of the day. I think that’s what matters.”

“I agree,” Harry says, quietly. “I think she likes you, though. Just so you know.”

Louis isn’t convinced. He doesn’t feel liked, but he doesn’t feel hated either. He supposes that’s the point. To wonder until she’s ready to confirm it. Or otherwise, to go on wondering forever. “Well, then, I’m flattered.”

Harry rests his hand on the table, palm up and open. Louis can’t help but smile. He sets his hand in Harry’s, lets him swipe his thumb across Louis’ skin a few times. “I think you’re right. This is all that matters.”

Louis glances at their joined hands. He thinks there’s very little some external force could do to get him to let go. But he doesn’t say that aloud. He’s not superstitious by any means, but he’s smart. And smart people don’t go tempting fate.

The flight is only a half-hour long. The seatbelt sign never goes off. They ascend just barely when the pilot alerts the flight attendants to prepare for landing. Louis never fooled himself into thinking he could catch a nap, but he needs one. And the short flight ends up having a more taxing effect on him than a long one would. He’s been going for nearly 24 hours, the exhaustion of travel has fully settled on him and spending the night prior tossing and turning didn’t help at all.

He and Harry are both a little cranky as they leave the terminal. (Less so after scarfing down burgers and a shared order of fries at an airport pub). They take a cab to the flat Harry used to share with Tyler and head straight for Harry’s old bedroom. They put fresh sheets on the bed. The sky is periwinkle. No later than 8 PM, he suspects, but within a minute or two, Louis is asleep.

+

The smell of coffee wakes him. Although Harry absolutely should have been the one to do it. “Who lets a person sleep for nearly 15 hours without thinking they’re dead?” Louis asks, entering the kitchen.

Harry slides him a cup of coffee with a pitiful look. “I tried to wake you at 8, but you went right back to sleep,” he says. “I don’t think you were sleeping that well last week.”

Louis adds a bit of oat milk to his coffee. He’s fallen in love with oat milk recently, thanks to Harry. (Contrary to what Anne has heard, he doesn’t mind spinach all that much either. Not if Harry puts it on a pizza.) After a sip, he instantly feels better. “It’s just the traveling. Although I do need noise, I think. Never slept somewhere so quiet.”

Harry toasts two slices of bread for them both to keep the hunger pangs at bay. It’s too close to lunchtime now. Too late for a proper breakfast.

Louis looks around the apartment, same as he did in the bedroom minutes earlier. He feels like he’s back in New York with how familiar the space feels. He’s not sure what he expected. A lack of character or distinction? Maybe boxes everywhere?

Harry’s old bedroom doesn’t feel like an old bedroom at all. It’s more of a base, making the one in New York an outpost.

“Is Tyler here?” Louis asks.

“I heard him come in late last night, but he left early this morning. Headed to the restaurant.” Harry butters his toast and Louis can see a thought building in his head, shaping his smile. “How can I convince you to come to his stag party tonight?”

“Oh, don’t think you can, babe,” Louis says, sadly. He doesn’t say no to Harry often, but he’s planted both feet very firmly on this issue. “I wasn’t invited.”

“You don’t have to be. It’s a party.”

“I disagree,” Louis says. And even if he didn’t, he knows of less than ten people who are going, according to Harry. That’s Tyler obviously, Harry, and their two uni friends and some family. Louis knows an awkward time even before he sees it. A hidden talent that keeps him unbothered and young.

“Maybe you’ll get a lap dance out of it,” Louis says. “You don’t want me around to see that, do you?”

“You could come and give me a lap dance yourself.”

Louis answers that with another sip of his coffee. He wants to change the subject and if he doesn’t bring this up now, he’ll just keep thinking about it. “When is Tyler moving out of here?”

“Technically, he has, but he’s staying here because Sophie has family over for the wedding.”

“So, officially,” Louis clarifies. “When’s he leaving?”

“End of the month, I think.”

“You’ve left a lot of stuff here, though,” Louis comments carefully. “What are you going to do with it at the end of the month?”

“I’m actually going to hold onto this place,” Harry says. “Sublet it, maybe.”

Not the answer Louis expected. “Planning on coming back?”

Harry finishes buttering his toast and takes a massive bite and shrugs.

Louis lifts his brows. “That was a joke.”

“I mean, someday maybe, I’d like to. You wouldn’t?”

“I haven’t really thought about it,” Louis says. Not since he met Harry, at least. “Definitely no time soon. I miss my family, yeah, but I’ve got no reason to leave New York now. I’ve got work there and friends there. _ You’re _ there.”

“Yeah, that makes sense,” Harry says. He looks around. “I miss this flat, though. It kind of has everything you need.”

“Your place in New York is pretty nice.”

“Yeah, it’s nice too.”

Louis narrows his eyes. He feels like they’re talking about something without talking about it. Dancing around an issue that’s going to come back to bite in the future. A sleek black cat dashes out from some corner of the room just then, startling them both.

“There she is,” Harry says, thrown into pursuit. He returns to Louis’ side with the cat in his arms. “This is Julep.”

“She’s a cutie,” Louis says, giving her head a rub. “Didn’t think Tyler was a cat person.”

“She’s Sophie’s. Tyler’s been keeping her here because Sophie’s sister is allergic,” Harry says to Julep, cradling her like a baby. He presses a kiss to her head and frees her. “Alright. Should we decide on lunch?”

+

They end up at a Japanese restaurant in London where the head chef comes out to give Harry a big hug and a smooch on his cheek. “This is my boyfriend, Louis,” Harry says, when he’s finally freed. “Louis, this is Suki. We went to school together.”

She wears big yellow glasses and bright red lipstick that somehow don’t clash at all. They only add to her zealous personality. She hardly sees Louis as she shakes his hand, as if her mind is already ten paces ahead of them all. But she comes back a moment later to pour them shots of sake and lingers to catch up with Harry, mostly speaking in Japanese, and to suggest things for them both to try. When she leaves, Harry translates it all.

“She says she’s coming to Tyler’s wedding,” Harry says. “And also order anything you want. It’s on her.”

“Happy day,” Louis says, opening his menu. And it is until halfway through lunch when Harry steals a bit of fried squid off Louis’ plate and pops it into his mouth. The stealing isn’t the trouble. But Harry freezes, not chewing, staring just past Louis’ head.

“What?” Louis asks. “Do you hate it?”

Harry shakes his head. He reaches for his bottle of Sapporo and washes it all down. Louis looks at him worriedly, and then instinctively he turns around.

“Don’t,” Harry says.

But it’s too late. Louis has already spotted a tall, grey-haired Japanese man looking their way. He’s wearing glasses, a black hoodie and grey trousers. Louis recognizes him in an instant. He turns back. “Well, that’s awkward.”

Harry looks at him. “I don’t think he’ll come over. Sorry.”

“Why would you be sorry?” Louis asks. “Do you want to leave? We can leave.”

“No, sorry, I’ll be fine.”

“Stop apologising,” Louis says. “Do you like the squid?”

“It’s good, yeah,” Harry says, keeping his head down.

Louis doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t like how Harry’s shoulders have hunched, how he’s actively minimizing himself. He blows a raspberry. “Want me to get rid of him?” he offers.

Harry’s tense expression softens a bit. He shoots Louis a smile. “Honestly, I’m fi—” He sits back in his seat and looks to be bracing himself. Jon appears at their table a second later, smiling.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says. “Thought it’d be rude if I didn’t say hi.”

“It’s fine,” Harry says. “Hi.”

“I heard you were living in New York.”

“I am, yeah,” Harry says. “You heard from who?”

Jon laughs. “I can’t recall now. Maybe Suki. Or maybe I’ve been too active on social media," he says. "The restaurant looks great, by the way. Everyone's talking about it.”

Harry glances at Louis. “This is Louis,” he says. “Louis, my boyfriend. Also in New York.”

Jon turns to Louis, extending a hand. “Jon.”

Louis shakes his hand. “Might have squid grease on my hand, sorry.”

Jon glances at his hand and smiles at them both. It’s all so tense and awkward that a better man might make himself scarce but Jon is either unaware or unconcerned. It makes Louis sick the way he smiles at Harry, in particular. Like no time has passed. “I live in London now,” Jon says. “Not far from Tyler, actually. I ran into him a while ago and he mentioned he was getting married. Suki said it’s in two days.”

“I didn’t know he’d seen you,” Harry says. “He didn’t say.”

“You never knew how overprotective he could be either,” Jon replies. “Marriage should keep him busy though. We should get a drink while you’re here. All of us. Louis and Suki and whoever else.”

“Uh—” Harry peeks at Louis again.

“I think we probably can’t, right, love?” Louis prompts Harry.

“Yeah, don’t think we’d have time,” Harry says. “Sorry.”

Louis looks at Jon expectantly. Like, surely, this should be the cue for him to leave.

“Maybe I’ll see you in New York, then,” Jon says. “I’ve been planning a trip.”

Harry nods, lips pursing. He turns his fork over idly. “Great,” he says, not quite looking at either of them.

Louis is aware that people maintain friendships with their exes. It might make it easier to imagine Harry and Jon doing the same if he knew more about how their relationship had panned out, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t know anything about these two together, he realizes. What he does know is that Harry isn’t himself. He isn’t comfortable and there’s no one to blame for that but the man who’s crashed their lunch.

“Well, it was nice meeting you,” Louis says, abruptly. Friendly, one could say, but firm.

It hits him finally. “Of course. Nice to meet you,” Jon says. He glances at Harry once more. “Good seeing you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says, and then nothing more. When they’re alone again, he immediately says to Louis, “Sorry about that.”

Louis simply shakes his head and starts again on his meal.

+

Louis could use another beer, but he’d have to leave the couch to fetch one. In Harry’s absence, he makes quick friends with Julep who fits herself into his lap with an unbothered resolve that says she intends to stay. Even if he wanted to leave the couch, he couldn’t and wouldn’t dare. It’s been four hours since Harry left and still a few hours remaining until he’s back. It’s also about six hours since they left the restaurant and a likely infinite number of hours until Louis will get over what happened there.

He tries and fails to find something to watch that holds his interest. He stalks Tyler’s cousin on Instagram where he’s been posting updates every half hour. A round of shots at the start of his story. Another round sometime later. Quick glimpses of Harry, if at all. His phone starts dying and he sets it aside, finally, and leaves it there. Because if he kills it, Harry won’t be able to reach him in an emergency and he can’t get up to fetch a charger either.

The hours pass. Louis watches a film, then some footie. He goes to grab his phone to check the time, at least, when the door opens and Julep darts out of his lap. Harry braces himself against the doorway for a second. He’s a big boy, so Louis doesn’t swoop in to save him. Although he does untie and remove his shoes. He gets him a cup of water too and spreads the blanket over both their laps.

Maybe Louis saves him a little.

“Where’s Tyler?” Louis asks.

“His cousin had to carry him home,” Harry says. He yawns, resting his head against the back of the couch. “Did you miss me?”

Louis smiles. “Very much.”

“You should’ve come,” Harry says. “Would’ve been awkward at first, but everyone was drunk by the second half.”

Louis leans his head back too. He pushes his hand through Harry’s hair. “I worry how I’d get on with Tyler under the influence, to be honest with you.”

Harry pouts. “It’d be nice if you two were friends.”

“You might not have noticed this, but he’s a massive dickhead. And you’ve told me why. It’s just no excuse when I’m clearly nothing like your ex.”

Louis has met the ex now, and even as brief as it was, that much is confirmed.

“You’re nothing like him, no,” Harry says, quietly. “I’m sorry about Tyler. I’ll talk to him.”

“If you want to,” Louis says. They’re quiet for a moment longer. Louis lowers the volume on the telly. “Today was fucking weird, Harry.”

“I know. I’m s—”

“Don’t apologise to me again, please. I’m begging you,” Louis says. “I just think I need to know everything. All of it, I mean. And I know it might not be the right time, but I feel like it’s never going to be the right time. And I want to know what happened. You kind of shut down a little bit and I need to understand why.”

Harry looks at the ceiling. “I just don’t want you to think differently of me.”

Louis sits upright. “That's not possible.”

“You don’t know that. It wasn’t like this. Like us. I was a completely different person,” Harry says. “Everything was different. Like I wasn’t sure about it at first. I was never sure about it. It was never right.”

“How so?”

“I told you he was like a mentor to me. It’s not just ‘cause he taught me things. He’s so much older than me. I was 19 at the time. He was 38.”

Louis blinks. He has to look away for a second because he doesn’t want Harry to look at him and read the judgement in his expression. There is none. Not of Harry, at least. He can’t imagine dating someone so young at 31. He pictures himself at 19 and can’t imagine why anyone in their 30s would want to date him either.

He could tell Jon was older than them, but no more than 40, he thought. Certainly not approaching 50.

“And he was married.”

“Christ,” Louis whispers. He folds his hands together in his lap. “Did you know he was married?”

“I did.”

Again, Louis is lost for words. “I mean,” he begins, carefully, running his hand through his own hair now, tugging at the roots slightly. “I don’t know. You were really young. It sounds like he took advantage of you.”

“You don’t have to say that.”

“I know I don’t have to, but it’s the truth, isn’t it?”

“I think I should’ve known better. Sometimes I did. He told me they were separated and he was planning to divorce her. But we were together for nearly two years and there was always a reason why things weren’t settled yet,” Harry says, pressing his palms into his eyes. He’s not crying. Just exhausted, it seems. “And I believed him most of the time.”

“I’m guessing he never divorced his wife.”

“I’m sure they’re still married.” Harry laughs humorlessly. “Towards the end, he swore he’d leave her if I stayed.”

“Stayed where?”

“In Japan. Tyler and I had been there for four years already but we’d always planned to go back to London and open the restaurant when we were ready. We’d been saving up for it. Tyler’s parents gave him money for it. My mum too. And Jon said we could make the long-distance work. He even said after the divorce, he’d consider moving to London with me. But when it was time, he couldn’t do it. He pretended like he’d had this epiphany. And he made it seem like it was selfish of me to ask him to leave his wife and give up everything for me when I wouldn’t do the same for him. And I know it sounds ridiculous, but in the moment, I actually considered it. I thought maybe I _ was _ being selfish. I love Japan and I loved him. And I think when someone you love gives you an ultimatum, you at least consider it.”

“But someone you love— Someone who loves you shouldn’t give you ultimatums.”

Now Harry presses a finger against his temple as if that solitary spot is the source of his headache and all his life problems too.

“You’re right, yeah. But still you can’t help but consider it.” He drops his hands in his lap, shoulders slumping. “Tyler was furious with me that the question had even come up. My mum was furious with me. It’s not like I’d actually changed my mind, but the fact that I'd considered it at all was some sort of betrayal. We all lost our minds for a second. I lost mine for two years. But I got on a flight with Tyler in the end. And I felt guilty for a while. Then I was angry. Then it just hurt. A little less each day, but it hurt for a long, long time. Because I’d trusted him. And because the more time passed, the more it seemed that he’d only wanted to control me.

“And today, I think I was just shocked that he thought we could get drinks like old friends. Like nothing had happened. I’ve thought about what I’d say if I ever saw him again. How I’d tell him off. When I was 20, I told myself one day it won’t be like this. I’ll be with someone else and I’ll accomplish things for myself. And I have that now. All of that. And I completely froze.”

He draws a shaky breath and looks at Louis, finally. “That’s the story,” he says. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

“No,” Louis says. “I’m so proud of you.”

Harry’s brows arch. “Why?”

“‘Cause it doesn’t matter if you couldn’t say it. It’s still true what you’ve accomplished. He tried to make you small, and you’re not,” Louis says. “Even if I never heard any of this, I’d still be proud. Sometimes I see you at the restaurant or even last week, with your family, and I get so proud— It doesn’t make sense but you know, you go out and you’re this bright person to all these people and then at the end of the day, you come back to me and you’re just as bright and beautiful. Just going around, lighting up everyone’s lives in spite of how fucking miserable and unfair life can be. And has been for you. That’s—”

He props his elbow up on his knee and turns his mouth into his palm, forcibly shutting himself up. He’s gone off on a frustrated tangent, trying to articulate something that words fail. He laughs at himself. “You know what I mean?” he asks feebly.

Harry frowns, but not because he’s displeased. “Sounds like you might love me,” he says quietly.

“_ No _, you think?”

Harry sniffs. He’s trying very hard not to cry, Louis realizes. But he’s also a little drunk and tired. He’s seen his ex after a near-decade today and endured Louis’ accidental but epic declaration of adoration. The odds are not in his favour. “Can I kiss you?” he asks.

“Another silly question,” Louis says, leaning in, giving him a kiss. He runs his thumb across Harry’s cheek, near the corner of his eye. Just a little damp. He kisses him there too. “You’re alright, love.”

“I am now,” Harry says.

He tastes a bit of tequila. Of agave and salt. Like tears might if they were bottled up and aged and sweetened over time.

“Should we go to bed?” Louis asks.

“Yes, please.”

Louis shuts off the telly and stands. Taking Harry’s hands, he tugs him to his feet. He undresses him, first pulling his T-shirt over his head. And when Harry flops down on the bed with a sigh, Louis wrangles his jeans down his legs. He shuffles into bed beside him. There’s an orangy street lamp outside the window and he knows he should get up and draw the curtains, but he likes the way the light looks on Harry’s face. He leans in to give him a kiss. It’s meant to be a ‘good night’, but then Harry cups the back of his neck and Louis forgets to stop.

“Do you want to fuck me?” he asks.

Louis draws away, propping himself up on his forearm. “I think you’re still drunk.”

“Is that a no?”

“It’s not a no. But you’re drunk.”

“Not so much anymore. It’s nothing I don’t want sober. There’s nothing I don’t want with you,” Harry says. He presses his hands into Louis’ lower back, urging his weight on top of him. “Fuck me.”

The truth is, now that the thought has been planted, there’s no way Louis won’t lie awake thinking about it. It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before. Or like Harry hasn’t mentioned it before outright. (Only once and as he was fucking Louis.) It’s not like Louis hasn’t begun to grind on Harry already. It’s all the incentive Harry needs to start shoving his pants down.

“Are you sure?” Louis asks. “Right now?”

“I love you,” Harry says and nothing else.

Louis hasn’t done this in a while, so he takes his time. But he’s barely got his third finger in Harry before Harry is outright begging. It’s a glimmer of familiarity for Louis. He’s so good at making Harry beg. And Harry makes it too easy, throwing his arm over his eyes when Louis rolls on a condom irritatingly slow. “Beginning to think I’ve spoiled you,” Louis says, knowing well that Harry spoils him constantly.

Harry smiles. “Love the sound of that.”

“We take good care of each other, yeah,” Louis says, quietly.

Harry looks at him — or through him, it feels like. “We do.”

Louis kisses him and pushes into him. “Always going to take care of you.”

He has a second’s thought — about whether this is how Harry was with Jon. But he suspects probably not. Jon was only ever interested in taking from Harry and Louis wants to give, as much as possible, as much as will keep Harry happy. He doesn’t come even when he’s close and he tells him how very good he is, how very lucky Louis feels.

And Harry, with his hands on Louis’ arse and his eyes shut, is speechless and breathless, receiving everything, holding it all in. Until he comes, pressing his face into the pillow beside him, biting the corner. Louis just looks at him. He wonders if he could come just looking at him.

“Remember when you said I could do anything?” Louis asks. “And you’d love it.”

Harry hums. He still can hardly breathe when he speaks. “I might remember saying something like that.”

“I want to do this,” Louis says, as he begins to thrust again. “A lot.”

Harry tries to laugh, but groans instead.

“Whatever you want,” Louis says. And if it sounds like a confession, it is less to Harry and more to himself. 

+

The shower is definitely too small for them both, but two days later, around 8 am, they squeeze in together anyway. Louis longs for Harry’s tub in New York or even the shower in Saint Alban. He longs for home and for routine in general, but they’ve got one day left to go. And then, maybe, a few days visiting Louis’ mum. It’ll be over before they know it.

Afterwards, still wrapped in towels, Louis gives Harry’s hair a trim. He used to do this for his sisters and his brother when he was in secondary school. Got quite good at it. To the point that he made a couple quid one summer giving his elderly neighbours a quick cut. 

Harry’s fringe is getting a bit long and misshapen. He has to constantly blow the stragglers out of his face, which Louis adores. And it breaks his heart to see them go. He uses Sophie’s blowdryer to tousle and shape it, running his hands through his hair, peeking at him in the mirror.

Louis pats Harry’s shoulders. “All done.”

“How much do I owe you?” Harry jokes.

Louis leans over his shoulder and Harry kisses him, instinctively. “That’ll do,” Louis says.

“You’re not going to shave, are you?” Harry asks.

Louis runs his hands over his scruffy chin. “I thought I would.”

Harry frowns. “I wouldn’t. I like it.”

“Well, now I suppose I can’t,” Louis says.

They get dressed. Louis spends too much time in the loo, styling his own hair, mentally psyching himself up for the day ahead. It feels like an hour has passed when he finally steps out and Harry clutches his temples.

“Oh my God, you’re so fit,” he says, and instantly all of Louis’ hard work _ and _ his recently tailored suit are validated. He hasn’t worn that particular grey suit in over a year, but it still fits him like a second skin. He wears a crisp white shirt with it, a sea blue tie, a splash of cologne.

“Says the boy in the tux.” Louis approaches Harry who is sprawled on the couch, fresh-faced and suave with his little velvet bow tie. “You might wrinkle yourself like that.”

“Would you like to wrinkle me some more?” Harry asks.

Louis snorts. “Maybe later,” he says. “Ready to go, best man?”

“If we have to,” Harry says.

They take a car to the church in Hampstead, where Tyler was baptized and where they were just the night before for rehearsals. They’re nearly there when Harry draws Louis’ hand into his lap. “Thanks for being my date, even if I won’t be with you most of the time,” he says.

“No problem,” Louis says. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll make friends.”

“I’m worried about myself. I’m supposed to go about my best man duties all day with you looking like that.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re hot,” Harry says.

Louis shakes his head, fighting a smile. “You too,” he says. “Obviously.”

+

He keeps his promise and makes friends as soon as Harry is swept away with the rest of the groomsmen. There’s a woman with a little flask of bourbon tucked into her dress pocket who allows him a sip outside the church. It’s 11 in the morning, so he only has one.

Slowly, more people begin to arrive. The church pews fill and the chatter grows louder.

He checks the time on his phone once more before finally, Tyler and Harry enter the chapel from a side door and stand at the altar. Tyler folds his hands together in front of himself. Harry shoots Louis two discreet thumbs up.

Tyler and Sophie’s daughter, Nomi, is a half a year old and wears a feathery white dress. She’s carried down the aisle in the arms of Tyler’s mother after all the groomsmen and bridesmaids have taken their places and she’s the highlight of the whole show. Everyone coos and awes, but she is half-asleep and oblivious to it all.

Louis will admit his heart warms seeing the way Tyler looks at his bride. Or the way Sophie looks at him. When she steps into the aisle, her eyes are on him alone, and she does a happy shake of her shoulders, smiling in a way that’s not seductive or coy, but just as private. She takes her uncle’s arm and starts towards him to the tail end of Elton John’s ‘Your Song’ performed by string quartet. A thousand ochre and vermillion flowers line her path. At some point, Louis looks away from her and looks at Harry, who is palpably and absolutely overjoyed. Ever the romantic.

At first, Louis watches and hears every word exchanged between Tyler and Sophie, but slowly, his mind wanders.

He hasn’t given marriage a ton of thought in his adulthood. When he was in university, it seemed like something that would inevitably happen. That he would meet the right man in New York. They would adopt a small army of children and live a wonderfully domestic life.

But he’s nearly a decade out of uni now and that dream has mostly given way to new ones regarding his career and an ideal existence in New York. And realistically, in order to feed a small army, he’d need to be somewhat successful.

“I can’t wait to spend forever falling more in love with you,” Sophie says.

Louis looks at Harry, who happens to glance at him. He focuses even harder on Sophie and Tyler from then on, or he pretends to. But it feels like only a second has passed before he and Harry glance at each other again. Slowly, as if they’re in on the same joke, they smile.

+

Mr and Mrs Nakamura, their groomsmen and bridesmaids file out of the church for photos, then pile into a limo and disappear for even more photos. 

Louis catches a ride to the reception with Anne, Gemma and her husband. It’s held at a hotel in the city co-owned by Tyler’s dad. It’s not that he wasn’t already aware, but it’s nice to have confirmation that the Nakamura family, like the Styles and Augustine families are rolling in cash.

He expected to be placed at some table in the back. Maybe with the woman with the flask. But he’s surprised and grateful to end up at a table with Harry’s family. If not for Anne, then for Gemma, who chats and jokes and toasts with him. It’s nice and it keeps him busy, but he peeks at the ballroom doors every two seconds.

He’s well into his second drink and hors d'oeuvres by the time the wedding party arrives, doing a nerdy synchronized dance that everyone goes wild for. Harry is second to last, dancing into the room with Sophie’s best friend, Mandy, the two of them pausing in the room for a friendly grind, his hands in the air, snapping. She gives his bum a tap before they part.

Sophie and Tyler enter the room. Everyone cheers and then everyone relaxes because the worst bits are over. Soon they can eat and dance and head home.

His phone buzzes. _ ‘Meet me at the bar.’ _

Louis’ glass isn’t empty, but he downs the rest and excuses himself.

He nudges Harry in the side as he joins him. “Hey you.”

“Hello,” Harry says, drawing him in. Louis isn’t the biggest displayer of public affection, but he kisses him. Just a quick smooch that isn’t satisfying at all, but would have to do. They order drinks and linger at the bar. Louis isn’t in a hurry to get back to his seat. Or anywhere that Harry isn’t.

One day, he suspects, they won’t want to be together this much. The thrill of a new relationship will have died down and it’s unlikely but perhaps Harry’s quirks won’t be as endearing to Louis and Louis’ cheekiness won’t be as charming to Harry. He doesn’t think it would change a thing. There’s too much he loves about Harry to ever be outweighed by something he might not like in the future.

And by then, they’ll have fallen in love over new things. A shared home. A shared decade. A few pets. A small army.

“What’s wrong?” Harry asks because Louis has been staring at him.

“I have something to say,” Louis says.

“Harry!” A woman in a hot pink dress and a hot pink hat rushes them. She is Lelaine of Buttermere Green, a childhood friend, who fancied Harry and Tyler for ages before losing her virginity to Tyler in Year 5. Harry tells him all this later. Louis divulges a lot from the way she kisses Harry on either cheek and squeezes him tightly. To her credit, she gives Louis a big squeeze too the second they’re introduced. She orders a drink and lingers with them and Harry seems helpless to get rid of her. Under different circumstances, if Louis didn’t have pressing things to say, she might be more than welcome.

“When are you coming back to London?” Lelaine asks. “You‘re coming back, aren’t you? You have to.”

All of a sudden, Louis feels like he’s eavesdropping. He looks down at his feet, trying to remove himself from the conversation, if not actually, then mentally.

“I don’t know. Things have gone really well in New York.”

“I thought the plan was for you to come back after a while. Didn’t think you were running off for good.”

“Have you missed me that badly?” Harry asks with a tight smile.

“Desperately,” Lelaine says. She looks at Louis. “Sorry, probably an awkward question. But we do miss him very much is all.”

“No, I get it,” Louis says. “I’d miss him too if he left New York.”

Lelaine looks from Harry to Louis. The maid of honour announces that dinner is being served and Louis is actually relieved to part ways.

+

Sophie and Tyler’s reception might be a lot more fun if not for a) Lelaine, b) the seating arrangement and c) Jon Hira, who walks in halfway through dinner and joins Suki at a table on Harry’s side of the room.

The food is delicious, as it would have to be with a slew of chefs in the room, but Louis can hardly enjoy it from then on. And if he didn’t already hate this bloke, he’d definitely hate him for ruining two of his meals in the last 72 hours.

Harry gives a lovely speech, about meeting Sophie for the first time and about being a godfather to Nomi. Louis records most of it, but the video is wobbly in the end because twice, he watches Jon watch Harry.

While the cake is cut, he spies Jon speaking with Harry at his table. And then, across the table, he realizes Anne has caught him looking. She lifts her glass of wine and pretends to be interested in something else. Louis does the same.

“I wouldn’t worry,” Gemma says, quietly.

Louis peels his gaze away. “About your mum or Harry’s ex?”

“My mum. Only because I know her.” Gemma glances over at Harry and Jon. “I couldn’t tell you about the ex. I’ve never actually met him. Not once.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“Because he’s a twat? The ex, not my brother. Although I guess Harry can be too.”

Louis laughs. “Sometimes, yeah. Not usually.”

He feels a bit better, making light of it all for even a second. He’s not sure what he expected to gain from his week in France, if anything, but it certainly wasn’t his closeness with Gemma. He remembers just the two of them sitting in the yard one evening as the sun set, talking about everything and nothing.

“He’d be mad to fuck this up. I don’t think you have anything to worry about in either case,” Gemma says, collecting her phone and her wine glass. “I’m going to ring the babysitter. See you on the dancefloor in a bit?”

“Sounds good,” Louis says.

Gemma excuses her to the rest of the table, leaving Louis with her husband and Anne and several strangers. He pokes at his slice of cake, determined not to look at Harry again so long as Anne is there to see him do it. A few guests have flocked to the dance floor and a sudden image pops into his head of Jon asking Harry to dance. Louis looks across the room again, just in case. He doesn’t see Harry at his own table because he’s approaching Louis’.

“Having fun?” Harry asks his mum.

Anne smiles. She lifts her glass. “I’ve had plenty of these, so yes.”

Harry smiles and slides into Gemma’s deserted seat. He looks happy. Not like he did yesterday after speaking to Jon. Louis isn’t sure whether to be pleased or suspicious.

“Hi again,” Harry says to Louis. “Do you want to take a walk? I need some air.”

“Now? With Outkast playing?”

Harry purses his lips, considering his options carefully. “Yeah, I think I have to miss this one. You said you wanted to tell me something?”

Louis eats his last piece of cake and stands, putting his hand in Harry’s. “Let’s go, then.”

They head to the garden. There are a few people there already so they keep walking, down a topiary-lined path toward a lighted fountain. It’s quiet, but they can still hear the music from here. Currently, it sounds like several Bruno Mars tracks the DJ has minced together. 

“Did you know he was coming?” Louis asks.

“I had no idea,” Harry says as they reach the fountain. “He’s Suki’s plus one, apparently.”

“And you’re alright?”

Harry thinks about it. “Yeah, I think I’m fine actually. You’re here, so. Are you alright?”

Louis nods, glancing at his feet, then up at the sky. He knows Harry is looking at him. He knows Harry won’t stop until Louis spits it out. “This is the closest I’ve felt to anyone,” he says. “You know that right? What we have with each other— I need you to know what it is to me. How much it means.”

“Okay,” Harry says, exhaling a fragile breath.

“I’m a sure thing,” Louis says. “As sure as I’m breathing. More sure than anything else or anyone else before. You have me for as long as you want.”

“So, always?”

Louis laughs. “Yeah, I’d really like that.”

“You’re not saying this because of Lelaine, are you?”

The song changes. It sounds like “I Wanna Dance With Somebody,” which is funny because Whitney was one of the first artists they listened to in Harry’s kitchen. There’s a peel of distant laughter and a rustle of trees in the wind. Louis doesn’t take his eyes off Harry. His beautiful, bright boy.

“I’m saying this because a wedding is a good time to. Because of all the talk of forever,” Louis says. “I’m saying I want that with you. I’m in this for everything, forever. As long as you want it too.”

“Of course I do,” Harry says. He looks relieved as if he’s spent all day turning similar thoughts over. He plants a kiss on Louis’ mouth.

“Well, that’s settled then,” Louis says, laughing again. He can’t stop laughing. He draws Harry into his arms. They’re caught in a hug that feels like coming home. An exhalation and an exaltation in the same instant. He holds him and peeks up at the stars again and wonders if there’s another dimension where a past version of himself might ever have seen this coming. That he would ever love anyone this much or be loved this much.

“Want to dance with me?” Harry murmurs.

“Thought you weren’t going to ask.”

“You think so little of me sometimes,” Harry says, tossing his arm over Louis’ shoulder.

+

Louis wakes for the second time that morning when he hears rustling beyond the bedroom door and assumes it’s Harry returning with breakfast. He shuffles out of the bedroom in just his pants and one of Harry’s T-shirts.

Julep runs out before him the instant he opens the door and into the arms of Tyler, not Harry. 

Louis stops short. “Oh, hey.”

“Morning,” Tyler says, setting the cat down.

“I thought you were off to Iceland, by now.”

“Came for the cat,” Tyler says. “And we don’t leave for a month. Sophie’s grandmum is sick and couldn’t travel for the wedding. So we’re going to New York to see her for a bit.”

“Right, your wife’s from New York. Someone mentioned that to me last night.”

Tyler’s brows crease. “Harry never mentioned it?”

“Don’t think so.”

Tyler exhales a laugh. He slides his laptop on the kitchen table into his backpack, then stops altogether. “It’s really not my place to say anything, but this is the second time he’s done this. Getting his head turned around because of a bloke. It’s ridiculous.”

“You’re losing me, mate.”

Tyler shakes his head. “Forget it.”

Louis is not immune to confrontations, but he likes to resolve them quickly. It’s past time for him and Tyler to either hash their issues out or write each other off indefinitely. The latter isn’t exactly an option. He and Harry have essentially just sworn their lives to one another and Tyler is an unfortunate fixture in Harry’s life. So, hash it out, it’ll be.

“I know you don’t like me. And you don’t have to,” Louis says. “But I’m not going anywhere, in case that’s not obvious already. It’s fine if you want to whinge every time I’m around. But you’ll be doing it often and eventually, it’ll just get boring. I think it’d make everyone a lot happier if you got over yourself, Harry especially.”

“So, what’s your plan for when Harry moves back to London?”

“Harry isn’t moving back to London as far as I know.”

“As far as you know,” Tyler says.

“Why don’t you just come out and say what it is you’ve got to say?”

Tyler crosses his arms over his chest and faces Louis fully.

“I was the one meant to move to NY. After Sophie graduated, we were going to do it together. She was finishing her PhD but it was always her intention to open a therapy practice back home and I wanted to open Yuzu there. Then she got pregnant. But she doesn’t have much family left in NY and we needed help with the baby all of a sudden, so we had to stay. But we also had investors in the new location which meant it was too late to pull out.”

Louis waits impatiently for Tyler to get the point, fully aware that he probably won’t like it.

“So, Harry went to NY instead. He didn’t want to, but he did. And I promised him that once Sophie graduated and Nomi could at least walk and we’d had the wedding, I’d move to New York and he could move back here. Two years at most and then we’d switch places. That was the plan. But Harry’s in love again, so who knows.”

Louis’ heart starts pounding like an enraged rabbit. He gives the back of the armchair a slight squeeze. “Sounds like you and Harry have a lot to talk about,” he says, hoping his voice sounds steady.

“Harry and you, too.”

“If Harry wants to move back to London, that’s his choice. I’m not going to talk him out of it.”

“Because you don’t care?”

All of Louis’ rage seems to swell up in his face, turning his skin hot, until it could pop. There’s a metallic taste in his mouth and he wonders if he’s bitten his tongue. “Actually right now, I don’t,” he says, with a death grip on the sliver of pride he has left.

He’s angry because he feels like an idiot. He moved to New York for uni. He was still a kid, it felt like. But Harry has a whole adult life here in London that he left behind. And it seems absolutely idiotic now that, before this trip, Louis never considered he might want to return to it.

But Harry never told him either. He had time to tell him and he never did.

“I guess that’ll make it easier for him,” Tyler says. “Jon’s here now. They can pick up where they left off.”

It’s as if Louis’ heart is made of glass. A tiny crack forms straight down the middle. Any second the whole thing will come apart. He has nothing at all to say. No comeback that will make it hurt any less.

The lock sounds at the door. Louis never stops glaring at Tyler, but he hears Harry say ‘hi’ happily upon seeing them both. “What are you doing here?” he asks Tyler.

Tyler doesn’t respond.

Harry slides his grocery bag onto the table. “What’s going on?”

“Just bringing Louis up to speed on the plan,” Tyler says.

Louis can feel Harry looking at him, but he keeps his head down. No one speaks or moves for several seconds. “I said I’d talk to him,” Harry says to Tyler. “Why would you—?”

Louis feels lightheaded and needs to sit down, but doesn’t. Instead, he goes into the bedroom and drags his duffle up onto the mattress.

“You’re a fucking dick,” Harry tells Tyler. “Why would you do this?”

“It’s always the same with you,” Tyler says. “You’re doing it again.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“It’s just like Japan.”

“Get the fuck out of here, Tyler. Fuck off.”

They go on bickering, but Louis isn’t listening to either of them. By the time he hears the front door slam closed, he’s already pulled on a pair of jeans and stuffed most of his dirty and clean clothes into his carryall. He’ll sort it out later. On a train home. He was planning to ask Harry if he’d come home with him and meet his family— He swears. A hoarse, definitive _ ‘fuck’ _ as he struggles to make sense of all this, of the last few months or days of his life and the ones that are to come. The only thing that comes to mind is ‘fuck’.

“Louis, I need to explain,” Harry says, standing at the door. “Please?”

Louis keeps packing. He’s afraid of himself and of what he’ll say if he doesn’t. Swearing wouldn’t do.

“This all happened really quickly. Everything happened so quickly. And it’s not like there was an actual time frame or anything. Two years or less or more, I didn’t actually know. I just knew that eventually I’d have to leave and I wanted to at first, but not when I met you. It got so fucking complicated. I tried not to think about it. It felt like there was never a good time to tell you.”

Louis pivots. “You’re telling me right now!”

He quickly regrets the decision to look at him. For the first time, he actually can’t stand to.

“But that’s too much to say when you first meet a person! And at first, you were impossible to read—”

Louis can’t help it. He looks at him again, his eyes gone wide.

“I’m not blaming you,” Harry says, quickly. “I’m just trying to explain. The first time you came by, I thought we were on the same page but then you left. You said goodnight and you left. And for months afterwards, it was like that, over and over. You’d get close and then you’d leave.”

“So you waited a bit to make sure I was in love with you? That doesn’t make any bloody sense.”

Maybe if there were a judicial third party here, they could take a vote and confirm. But also, fuck that. Louis has been around the sun a few times and he is 110% certain Harry isn’t making any sense.

Louis slaps his dress shoes into the duffle. “Why don’t you just say that you weren’t sure you wanted to be with me at all?” he begins, measuring his words very carefully, very precisely. “‘Cause the thought of coming back here and maybe being with Jon was tempting?”

Harry stares at him. “Are you fucking serious?”

“I don’t know! You never once considered being with him again?”

“Since meeting you? No, I haven’t.”

“This has nothing at all to do with him then? You didn’t think I’d give you an ultimatum or some shit, right? That’s what you’re saying.”

Harry hesitates. And maybe he’s just giving it some thought. Maybe that’s fair. But Louis exhales another panicked, “_ Fuck _.” He yanks violently on the zipper of his duffle and slings the strap over his shoulder. “You fucked it all up, you know that, yeah? It was so good. Maybe too good. But you’ve fucked it up.”

For what it’s worth, Harry can’t really look at him either. “I know you don’t mean that.”

“You came to New York with an actual agreement to leave in a year — or two years, whatever — and you never mentioned it. Not once. It’s the one thing I can’t stand, Harry. I _ told _ you that. And you lied to me anyway.”

“I didn’t lie.”

“Oh, fuck off. You didn’t tell me the truth either.”

“Okay. You’re right. I fucked up, I did. And there’s no excuse except that I love you, Louis. And the last time I was in love, or thought I was in love, I lost myself for a long time. And I made terrible decisions and none of them felt like my own. And this— It’s nothing like that, but it’s bigger. This happened so quickly. It felt like only weeks passed and I couldn’t imagine not talking to you or seeing you. And yes, that scared the shit out of me. But it just happened. I kept seeing you. I just wanted you and it didn’t matter. And if there were consequences, I’d deal with them later. I knew it as soon as I met you, I wanted to be with you. And maybe that’s why I didn’t say it then. And that’s wrong, I know. It’s selfish. But the more time passed, the harder it was to bring it up.”

They say nothing. Harry is waiting for Louis to respond. Louis has no words that will suffice. He’s struggling even to find enough air.

“I can’t do this,” Louis says, mostly to himself.

“Louis,” Harry says a third time, almost like he knows what it does to Louis to hear his name in Harry’s mouth. Three times like an incantation. It nearly splits Louis’ head open to think of the spell-binding sort of intimacy he’s had over the last several months. Or to consider how arse-over-tit, blindly, stupidly in love he’s been. And still is now, of course.

“No. We’ve got nothing if we don’t have trust,” Louis says. “And you don’t trust me.”

Harry presses his fingers into the corners of his eyes. “It’s me I didn’t trust.”

“That doesn’t make a difference,” Louis says.

“If I had told you the day we met, would you have taken a chance with me still?”

“You could’ve told me you were leaving the next day and it wouldn’t have changed how I felt about you right then. But it’d be my choice to make, Harry. That’s the point. That’s fair, isn’t it?”

Feebly, Harry says, “Yeah. It is.”

“Have you even thought that maybe Tyler’s right? Maybe you’re meant to be here and you’re trying to give that up for me? I don’t want that.”

“Jesus. You’re absolutely nothing like him,” Harry says.

“Well. You’ve made that really hard to believe.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Harry looks at him, helplessly. “I don’t know how to fix this, but you can’t tell me there’s no fixing it. You can’t want that either.”

“I can’t fucking think right now. I don’t know,” Louis says, but he’s finished packing, so the least he can do is leave. “Some space would be good. I told my mum I'd see her. I’ll fly back to New York on Monday.”

Harry’s face crumbles. He pulls the neck of his T-shirt up to his nose because it’s running, and sniffs quietly. He looks so young right now. The urge to pull him into bed and hold him tightly springs up for an uninvited second.

“I just need to think," Louis says. "We’ll talk in New York, if you’re planning to go back.”

Harry shakes his head. “Obviously," he says, quietly. "I'll see you in New York."

Louis stuffs his phone into his back pocket. It's weird to walk past him without a kiss or even brushing his fingers down Harry's forearm like he sometimes does.

"I’m sorry," Harry says again.

To that, Louis says, “Okay." Because he believes that much to be true. Then he leaves because it doesn’t make much difference. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you should definitely listen to 'chateau' by Angus & Julia Stone, which propelled me to finish this chapter and is included in the playlist. it's probably more relevant to chapter 10, but still relevant overall :)
> 
> also, thanks for waiting! hopefully chp 10 won't take too long!

The good thing, or perhaps the best thing, about returning to New York is the immediate access to unlimited distractions.

It wasn’t so in Doncaster. He was happy to see his mum, who took one look at him — sans Harry — and gave him a smile and a very long hug. Happy to see two of his sisters, as well, although they were less obliging. They asked whether Harry cheated on him, whether he cheated on Harry, or most irritatingly, if Harry was ever dating him at all.

As much as he’s wanted to see his family, the differences between his and Harry’s are distinct. He grew up in a no-bullshit household. People asked questions or else, lay in wait until they could. He opted not to answer his sisters, but his mum was a different case.

She waited until tea on his last night to ask if he’d like to talk about it, to which he replied, “Not really.” And then, minutes later, “It’s just a row.”

A mostly inconsequential fight, that’s all. Not the entirety of their relationship in jeopardy.

He’s not sure she believed him in the end, but Louis was so insistent, he nearly started to believe it himself. He started to think he would fly back home and Harry would be sitting on his stoop with a completely valid explanation for everything. He would swear to Louis that he wasn’t moving back to London at all and Louis wouldn’t feel guilty about whatever influence he had on that decision and they could carry on living as they had the past year in relative bliss.

Of course, Harry is not sitting on his stoop when he arrives late on Monday. Because Louis changed his flight to one that arrived a bit earlier, as logically, he couldn’t fly home on the same flight sitting in the same seat beside Harry that he had booked.

It still bothers him. It still makes him antsy and irritable. He’s tired and he should go to bed early, but being in New York means he doesn’t have to. There’s always another option.

It’s still relatively early, which means happy hour at Marie’s Crisis is just about to kick off. It’s the best time to go, right before the tourists come shuffling in after their seven o’clock Broadway shows have ended. And on Mondays, Arthur is on the piano. He’s pretty sure some of his castmates should be there too, including Earl. He loiters there in his apartment for a moment, pretending he hasn’t already made up his mind, and then he leaves.

No one gives the city enough credit for its friendly faces. And not fake friendly. Not “I was raised this way” friendly. It’s forged the moment a person spends any significant amount of time here. It’s the shared awareness of being up to your elbows sometimes in metaphoric dirt. It’s when he pauses for a second in his favourite bar or outside a Five Guys at 3 AM, or he’s standing on a platform and the next arriving train doesn’t stop for some absurd reason. He makes eye contact with the person beside him and sometimes — not always — there’s a smile or a laugh or a word of camaraderie. A friendly face in a microcosmic and oft unfriendly world.

That’s what he needs, and that’s what he’s guaranteed to find.

Earl is occupying a coveted seat by the piano, and when he sees Louis, he points at him and starts doing a little jig. Though Louis historically loves attention, he runs a self-conscious hand through his hair and quickly moves further in.

“Oh, you’re too sober,” Earl declares, taking a look at him and then looking around at a few of their coworkers. They’ve all got rehearsal tomorrow morning, but against Louis’ better judgement, Earl says to them, “We need shots” and within a minute, everyone is taking shots.

He starts to feel better immediately and it’s not just the alcohol, but the company and the music. He doesn’t sing as boisterously as he tends to, but he does sing. And doing what he loves in any capacity to any degree is a cure. He returns to the bar for another Stella.

“Where’s the cutie you always come in here with?” the bartender, James, asks.

Louis has been here only twice with Harry compared to the dozens of times he’s come by himself. Once when it was just the two of them rounding out a date night. Another time with a gang of friends after dinner at the ale house up the street and just before going dancing at Stonewall.

But Harry is a noticeable character, and both times, he sang loudly and he tipped generously and this very same bartender seemed to be flirting with both him and Louis throughout the night as if to lure them into a threesome. Louis remembers because they talked about it on the train home.

“I’m cutie-free tonight,” Louis says.

“That’s too bad,” James says, but he doesn’t look all that sorry. He gives Louis a little smile. Pours him another beer. “This one is a gift.”

They make eye contact three times more throughout the night. For Louis, it’s due to that annoying phenomenon where a person’s gaze returns to the same spot repeatedly. (It’s why he ends up meeting the eye of the person sat across the train from him more times than he’d like to.)

To James, it must seem purposeful. And if Louis were single, maybe it would be. Maybe he’d consider it, although he slept with a bouncer at a bar in Bushwick once and hasn’t been back to there since. The sex was fine. The bouncer was an absolute twat.

Obviously, Louis doesn’t consider it now, and when he returns to the bar, he tries to carry himself in a way that makes it obvious. He hands James a twenty for his beer and Earl’s vodka ginger. James turns the dollar over, looking at both sides. 

“What?” Louis asks. “It’s good, I promise.”

James laughs. “Just checking to see if you wrote your number on it.”

Louis wrinkles his nose. “Do people do that?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, but people do crazy things when they’re drinking.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

James shrugs. “I won’t judge you if you do it anyway.”

Louis smiles. “It does sound like something I’d do if I were drunk enough, maybe,” he says. “If I were available. Which I’m not…”

James places Louis’ change on the countertop. “Well, feel free to try it when you are.”

That sits heavily on Louis’ heart the rest of the night. Not the idea of being single because that’s nothing new. C’est la vie. It’s the idea of not being with Harry. 

Louis can physically feel his mood diminishing afterwards. The piano man performs ‘We Both Reached for the Gun’ from Chicago and though Louis typically loves that song (and still sings it with his entire chest), it doesn’t bring him the same degree of joy that it typically would. He’s starting to worry nothing will. Not even his favourite people together in his favourite bar in his favourite city.

He bids them all ‘good night’ and most of them are too drunk or too enthralled in Wicked’s ‘For Good’ to really notice. It’s egregious to leave in the middle of the song, but Louis is drunk and feels like he could cry. He won’t. He just sometimes wishes he were the kind of person who could on command.

The night is offensively humid. The last few Septembers have been. Just elongated Augusts. He pops into the deli on the corner and buys a pack of cigarettes, although he was doing well not to for the past month. He stands under the awning of the store, digging in his pocket for the lighter he just bought. His phone rings. He sees it’s Harry, and his heart hiccups violently. He shoves the phone into his back pocket. Yanks it out again before it goes to voicemail. He doesn’t say anything. Mostly he doesn’t know what to say. He’s genuinely too stubborn to try, ‘Hello.’

“Louis?”

“Yup.”

“Are you out?”

“I am,” Louis says. He leans into the brick wall of the deli. “Went to Marie’s.”

“Oh. Good crowd tonight?”

“The usual, yeah.” Louis gives up on lighting the cigarette. He tucks it and the lighter in his pocket, and starts across the street. “Some coworkers too.”

“So you had fun?”

“I did,” Louis says, entering the subway.

“You’re doing alright, then?”

Louis rolls his eyes. “What do you think, Harry?” He pushes through the turnstiles. “You’re not here, are you? Honestly, do you think I’m doing alright?”

Harry is quiet for a moment. “I wish I was there,” he says finally.

“But you’re not.”

“No… I’m in London, still. With Gemma and Hannah… I’m coming back, obviously. Tomorrow, actually. I miss you.”

Louis wanders down the platform away from everyone else. He puts his forehead in his palm. “Yeah, well—” He feels like his brain is floating in a jar. Or like his entire person is floating, out of his control. “Me too.”

“I think we should talk.”

“I’ve been here, available to talk for the past year. If there was something you needed to say to me, I was right fucking there. Nothing’s changed.”

“I don’t want to do this over the phone.”

“I don’t want to do this at all,” Louis says.

“Alright, Louis,” Harry says. “I just wanted to check in, that’s all. I’m back tomorrow, so if you want to talk then, let me know.”

“My train’s here,” Louis says, and it kind of is. He can see the lights in the distance.

“I don’t hear the train.”

“Well, you will in a second…”

“Do you want to talk tomorrow?”

“I don’t know, Harry. When I’m ready to talk, we can talk.”

“Okay, fine,” Harry says, sounding frustrated at first, and then much softer, when he says, “Louis—” 

Then the train pulls into the station, and the rest of what he says is mostly inaudible.

Louis says, “I have to go,” and that’s the end of it.

+

When his phone rings two days later on Wednesday, he’ll admit he wants it to be Harry calling again. He’s not sure he’ll answer if it is, but he’d like to have the option. It’s a UK number on his screen. ID unknown. He holds the phone between his ear and shoulder as he elbows his way into his apartment. “Hello?”

“Hi, Louis? It’s Anne.”

He freezes. He leans into the door, pushing it closed and then just stands there with his grocery bags in his arms. It’s not unusual that she has his number. She booked his flights for him after all. Or her assistant did. It’s only unusual for her to _ use _ his number. 

“Louis?”

“Yeah, hi. How are you?”

“I can’t complain. I’m having a hard time getting in touch with Harry,” she says. “Would you tell him to give me a ring? It’s important.”

“Is everyone alright?”

“Everyone’s fine. We’re just trying to nail down a date for a board meeting next year… Nothing too pressing, but when you see him, would you let him know?”

Louis finally sets his groceries down on the table. It’s definitely unusual for her to use his number for something like this, and he worries that she knows more than she’s letting on. If it’s another test of hers, he’s not taking it. “He’s in London still, I think,” he says outright. “And I’m back in New York. So, I’m not much help.”

“I thought you two were supposed to fly back together two days ago.”

Louis massages his forehead. “We were, but— I left earlier. He stayed.”

Anne is quiet for a moment. Long enough that Louis starts to feel sweat lining his palms. “I hope this isn’t because of something I said,” she says finally. “I meant to apologise at the wedding for that chat we had. I think you probably know him better than I do. I’m sure he’s more honest with you than he is with me. So, if you’re considering how much weight my opinion has, I can tell you it’s not much.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Louis says. Especially not about Harry’s honesty. “He cares a lot about your opinion.”

“Well, he shouldn’t. I’ve told him that, although it probably doesn’t help that I turn around and offer my opinions anyway.” He hears the sound of Sam mewling in the background, his nails on the hardwood floors of her London home. She orders him to stop and he stops, and Louis is just as amazed by her disciplining skills as he was in Brittany.

“I think mothers, sometimes— All we want is to keep our children safe and happy. But we don’t always know how. Sometimes we’re just desperate to do it. By any means necessary. And that can do more harm than good.”

Louis takes a seat on the kitchen floor. “My mum would never admit that, but I hear you.”

“Well, it isn’t absolute. Just because you shouldn’t listen to us all the time, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t listen some of the time. We don’t want you getting carried away.”

“And we would.”

“You would,” Anne agrees. “But I think we— Or at least, I could be better about admitting when I’m wrong. And when I’ve been harsh. Harry is different and more carefree and riskier than I was, and that scares me. He’s risky in business and in love, too, I think. And I’ve tried to steer him away from that for years, but it hasn’t worked. And he found you, so I guess I was wrong. I was and I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t you,” Louis says, hugging his knees to his chest. “We’re grown men. There are only so many mistakes we can blame on our parents. He couldn’t blame you for this. I don’t.”

“I didn’t make you doubt him then.”

“No,” Louis says. “I think I’d be giving you too much credit if I said you did.”

Anne laughs. “You weren’t this funny in France.”

“I’m sure I tried, but I was too nervous about meeting you.”

“Did you have a good time? In spite of me?”

“In spite of you, I had a great time,” Louis says, his smiling growing when she laughs again. Oddly enough, he thinks he’ll give his own mum a call after this. Maybe he’ll tell her everything. Maybe he can tell her Anne Augustine isn’t so bad. “Thanks for having me.”

“Of course. I know you know this, Louis, but he does love you very much,” Anne says. “I think you’re both stuck on each other.”

Louis rests his forehead on his arms. He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I don’t want to butt my nose in any further,” Anne says. “But when you work it out with him, please have him give me a call. Hopefully, I’ll get in touch with him before then.”

Louis should probably correct her. The question is if, not when, they’ll work it out. But he doesn’t see the point in doing that when she’s feeling guilty enough. “Yeah, okay,” he says. “I’ll let him know.”

“Thanks. And I’ll see you soon.”

He doesn’t correct her there, either.

+

He randomly opens his text messages with Harry, reading an old string of nonsense jokes between them, and for an instant the text bubble appears, indicating that Harry’s typing, and then they disappear. Louis waits for longer than he’s willing to admit for them to reappear. Or for a message to come through. Neither does.

He texts Zayn instead. It’s perhaps been a month or so since he last saw him, so when Zayn says he’s headed to a bar for lunch, Louis can’t think of any reason not to join him. It’s either that or stare at his messages with Harry for another hour.

He quickly regrets his decision.

“So, I talked to Harry,” Zayn says, almost immediately. The bartender has just walked away. The foam hasn’t yet settled on Louis’ beer.

“Funny you didn’t mention that before luring me out here.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at him. “Please tell me you didn’t break up with him.”

“Who said I broke up with him?”

“Harry’s under the impression you’ve broken up with him and you just haven’t got around to telling him yet.”

Louis shrugs. “If that’s what he wants to believe.”

Zayn narrows his eyes at him. “I don’t think you should do this, Louis.”

“Do _ what _?”

“I just can’t believe you’re actually going to break up with him,” Zayn says. “That’s crazy, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t,” Louis says. “And you can’t possibly know what I’m planning to do when I don’t even know what I’m planning to do.”

“You’ve been like this for a whole decade, Louis. Maybe before. I couldn’t say ‘cause I didn’t know you then. You’re acting bitter the way you do when you stop seeing someone. Next week you’ll be calling me and begging me to go out. And the weekend afterwards too. And then eventually you’ll get bitter again and I won’t see you for weeks until I have to lure you out with the promise of free drinks. But who knows, it might be different this time. You didn’t actually love those blokes before, did you?”

“Piss off,” Louis says irately. “I didn’t say I was breaking up with him, firstly. But also, he’s a liar. _ And _ he’s moving back to London any day now, which he knew since he moved here. So it’d be just justified if I did— Did you know he was planning to move back home?”

“He might’ve mentioned it when we first met, but he hasn’t at all since.”

Louis laughs. He takes a long generous gulp of his beer.

“He’s changed a lot since last spring,” Zayn adds. “He was trying to make the best of it, but anyone could tell he was homesick. I haven’t seen him like that since you.”

“None of that matters, though, if he’s leaving. And I’m not going to convince him to stay or anything like that. And long-distance relationships are miserable,” Louis says. “I didn’t sign up for all this.”

“How do you know what you’re signing up for? Was there a form with the terms all written out? You think you didn’t read the fine print?” Zayn shakes his head. “It’s a relationship, Louis. Not a contract.”

Louis blinks at him. He’s got that awful feeling in his chest, the one he gets before he says something equally awful. But he can’t help it. And it’s not fair that he has to. It’s not fair that with everyone poking and prodding at him — Harry’s mum, Tyler, Jon, Harry himself and now Zayn — he can’t poke back. “Look at you,” he says. “Dr Zayn Malik, relationship guru. Does the audience know you’re in love with a girl a thousand miles away? Makes you a bit of a fraud, if not, doesn’t it?”

Zayn puts his glass down. Louis looks resolutely at the TV screen across the room. They sit in awkward silence for a minute or two. Louis goes to apologise, but the demon on his shoulder reminds him that he’s got his own shit to be angry about. Best not go handing out apologies when no one’s apologised to him. So, he sits there, in his angry conciliation bubble, sipping periodically on his drink.

“Mate,” Louis says, finally with a sigh. His id is thrown into revolt, but he doesn’t care. “Don’t listen to me, alright?”

Zayn doesn’t reply, and Louis has to look to make sure he’s even still there. He can see someone sitting next to him, but it could very well be a different person altogether. He looks and Zayn glances back at him. He doesn’t look angry at least. Simply detached.

“Seriously, I’m sorry I said it,” Louis says. “What the fuck do I know?”

“A lot, actually,” Zayn says. “You found someone in this city who loves you. You know a lot more about how it feels than most people.”

“Sure,” Louis says.

“I’m not saying he didn’t fuck up. I’d be upset too. But if I had what you two have, I’d put up a good fight, I think. It’s different for me and Clem. I’ve told her how I felt. She just didn’t return the favour. I’m not sure she ever would. There’s not much there that’s worth fighting for, do you see what I mean? Maybe it’s the same with those blokes you dated before. Nothing there to fight for. You and Harry, though… I don’t know. Can you say that’s true?”

Louis tilts his head back and shuts his eyes for a second. If he were drunk, it’d be a mistake. Might send him teetering backwards off his chair. He thinks about those films where the star experiences some form of head trauma and either they don’t remember things or they remember things differently. In his own film, he’d fall off his chair and hit his head and when he came to, Harry would be beside him, and he never lied, and they never fought.

He thinks about all his fantasies and rationalisations over the past few days, which have everything to do with his fundamental desire to preserve his relationship. It’s not a fantasy and it’s not always rational, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less worth the fight.

Harry for all he’s done right and wrong— 

Louis would put up a fight for him.

Louis takes another sip of his beer, and he’s still in the midst of processing his thoughts about Harry when he thinks again about Zayn, about Clemena. The irony is undeniable. It was Clemena who inadvertently nudged Louis and Harry together.

Not to deflect, but it seems like the right time for Louis to mention. “The right person will tell you they love you.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it,” Louis says, begrudgingly. “We’re talking about you for a second. You might have to let her go.”

“I’m working on it,” Zayn says.

Louis exhales and it feels like he hasn’t done so in a while. Hasn’t released all the tension and melancholy in days. “He’s moving back to London,” he says as if it’s just hit him…hard. So long as he stayed angry, so long as he focused on the specifics of his imminent breakup, he didn’t have to contend with the distance. But he thinks about it now. “I’ve gone and made all these plans for the future with someone who’s moving across the world.”

Nonsensically, Zayn smiles at him. “That’s better,” he says.

“What?” Louis asks.

“You don’t sound as bitter. You just sound miserable,” Zayn says, draping his arm over Louis’ shoulder. “Harry might be in luck.”

Louis scoffs, and then, with resignation, he slumps into Zayn’s side.

+

At dusk the following day, his phone rings. On the screen is ‘Nakamura, Tyler’. He’s half-asleep and so he thinks he’s dreaming for a second. When he realizes he isn’t, he still doesn’t answer. Five minutes later, the phone rings again. Louis snatches it off his pillow. “Yes?” he says.

“Louis?”

“Yes,” he says again, even more acerbically.

“It’s Tyler.”

“I’ve got caller ID.”

Tyler is quiet for half-second and Louis imagines him withholding a snide comment. He’s in a fighting mood, though, so he wants him to say it. He’s gearing up to deliver some loaded remark of his own when Tyler says, “Listen, Harry’s in hospital. I thought I’d give you a ring—”

“What happened?” Louis asks. He’s out of bed already. His lights have been switched on and he’s searching for his shoes. 

“He’s fine,” Tyler says. “He tripped down some stairs in the subway. Sprained his wrist. They’ve got him on concussion watch, but if someone comes for him he can go home. I’m on my way in to New York but I don’t arrive—”

“What hospital?”

“Beth Israel.”

“I’ve got him,” Louis says, taps the button to end the call and jams his phone in the pocket of his sweats. He has his shoes on now. He grabs his wallet on his way through the door.

+

It’s all Louis can do not to have a breakdown when Harry opens his eyes. It feels like he exhales his first breath in hours and as he does, his skin prickles and he feels moisture building alarmingly in his eyes. He purses his lips, jaw clenched.

Harry turns his head and finally notices him. His eyes widen slightly. His left has a small bandage above the brow. His bottom lip is slightly busted and his chin is bruised. He doesn’t look perfect, but still significantly better than Louis envisioned on the way here. And more importantly, he’s alive and awake.

“Surprised to see me?” Louis asks.

Harry clears his throat. “A bit.”

“I stopped by your place. Got you a change of clothes and stuff. For when they free you.”

“Thanks,” Harry says. “Sorry, I told Tyler to ring Zayn.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I didn’t know if you wanted to see me.”

“This is a special circumstance, isn’t it?” Louis asks, slightly annoyed. He adds quietly, petulantly, “I always want to see you.”

He doesn’t look at him, although he knows Harry is looking intently at him. He unzips his rucksack. “I couldn’t figure out which book you’re currently reading so I picked up a new one. It has good reviews online. I’ve got some Haribo too. Not sure you’ll need any of this, though. They’re sending a doctor in and once they give the okay, I can take you home.”

Harry peruses the cover of the book Louis’ bought him. “ Thank you.”

Louis nods. He crosses his arms over his chest. “You know I’ve been here for over a decade and I’ve never even stumbled in the subway.”

“Some of us are more fortunate than others,” Harry says. “Plus 53rd and Lex gets everyone eventually. I hope all that construction they’re doing is to make things safer. And more wheelchair accessible.”

“Oh, you were staging a demonstration, then? Is that it?”

“I might’ve been.” Harry pauses. “I wasn’t trying to get your attention or anything, though. In case that crossed your mind.”

“Of course not,” Louis says, scoffing. “It’s your honesty that’s in question. Not your sanity.”

Harry falls silent again and his gaze flickers away. Immediately, Louis regrets saying it. Not because it isn’t true, but because it wasn’t necessary. He was being blunt, but not maliciously. Humorously, if anything, he thought. The lack of laughter says otherwise.

“I know I’ve said sorry already,” Harry begins. “But I don’t mind saying it a few times more if that helps. I just don’t think it will.”

“No, probably not,” Louis says.

“I really did fuck it up, didn’t I?”

“I’ll get to that in a second.” Louis sits forward, elbows on his knees. “I need you to tell me if I ever made you feel the way he did.”

He’s been horrified at the thought. That maybe he said something or did something in the past that made Harry feel small, made him feel like he couldn’t trust him.

There’s a twitch in Harry’s expression. A suggestion of tears like a distant and faint rumble before a thunderstorm. “I told you you’re nothing like him and I meant it.” His waterline turns a sudden, deep pink, making the green of his eyes stark. “It’s just complicated.”

“I’ve got time,” Louis says.

Harry slides the book onto the bedside table. “You asked if I considered being with him again and I said since meeting you, I hadn’t. Which is the truth. I spent five years dating all sorts of people in London. Not that I had the time to. But I met some nice people. And it was always off with them. Like I was trying too hard to be liked all the time or convinced I wasn’t liked at all.”

He describes people who were too pushy. Too reclusive. People who, in some way big or small, were never quite right. Louis supposes he can relate to that. He supposes everyone can.

“I couldn’t tell if it was me or if it was them, but there was always something. It got to the point where I was convinced I couldn’t have a relationship with anyone since him. And when he reached out right before I left to tell me he was moving to London, I thought maybe this is it for me. Some people come into your life and they make you feel as if you’re ruined for anyone else. Like they’ve left a brand on you or something. And then I came here and I met you,” he says. “And I remember I wasn’t nervous. I didn’t feel self-conscious. Like we weren’t strangers at all. You had no problem challenging me to do a fry up at nearly midnight—”

“_ You _ challenged _ me _,” Louis counters.

“I think it was mutual,” Harry says with a hint of a smile. “I’ve been thinking a lot about that, honestly. It probably helped that nothing happened right away, that you were a friend first. Because I did trust you. I did feel like I could tell you anything. But I had feelings for you too, Louis. Genuine feelings that I hadn’t felt for years. So when it came down to it, no, it didn’t feel right to tell you I was there temporarily. Not if it could ruin something I thought I wasn’t going to find again. It’s not because of anything you did wrong. If anything, you were exactly right. And I panicked. Does that make sense?”

If Louis was the type of person to burst into tears, he would. “It makes sense to me, yeah,” he says weakly. He looks at his palms, drawing his thumb down his lifeline. “It was the same for me, I think. Before I met you… I was considering leaving New York.”

He glances at him. Both of Harry’s brows have shot upwards.

“I didn’t have a plan or anything,” Louis clarifies. “I was just feeling lonely, I guess. Feeling a bit lost. I was looking into flights. I considered putting my couch on Craigslist.”

“_ No _.” Harry gasps. “Not the couch.”

Louis laughs. “Yeah, I know. I hadn’t done it yet, but I think if you’d come along a week or two later, I might’ve. And I told you before. I met you and I knew I wanted to keep you around. Even if we were just mates. Even if I wanted more. So, I don’t know. Maybe I panicked too.”

“Maybe,” Harry says. He pauses, both of them just looking at each other. “I love you so much.”

Hearing it feels so good. As if he forgot, and in some way, he did forget how nice it feels to be loved. And how much the feeling supersedes so much else.

“If saying sorry isn’t enough, what do you need me to do?” Harry asks. “For you to forgive me?”

“I think I already have,” Louis admits. “Maybe if you were anyone else, I’d still be angry. But I’ve gone soft. And there’s no excuse except that I love you.”

Harry holds his gaze for a second or two, and then he rests his head against the pillow, throwing his arm across his eyes like some Victorian lady overcome with emotion. “Just give me a minute,” he says.

Louis laughs and exhales at the same time. “So dramatic,” he says as if he hasn’t been spiralling for nearly a week. “You haven’t fucked it up at all. I said so, but seeing you right now, I don’t actually feel any differently about you. I don’t love you any less. I don’t want anything less than what I wanted in London. I think there’s not much you could do to truly ruin this, but please don’t go testing that theory.”

“I won’t, I promise,” Harry says. “I won’t hurt you again.”

“I don’t think you can say that for sure. I don’t think _ I _can. Some things you can promise, yeah, but we can both be dickheads. What if one of us has a bad day or life throws some shit at us that we handle horribly. I think maybe that’s the point. To choose someone and accept the risk and accept that they’re human and they make mistakes. And I’m choosing that,” Louis says. And then, in his school teacher voice, he adds, “But I know you’ll try your very best not to hurt me again.”

“Yeah, I will.”

“Good. And I’ll do the same.”

There’s still one other matter left in his queue and Louis feels his eyes and nostrils stinging once more as he attempts to tackle it. He clears his throat. “I can do the long-distance, obviously,” he says. “We’ll work it out. And eventually, we’ll end up in the same place. I know that too.”

For now, he won’t think about what that looks like. Whether it’s in two years or five. So much is likely to change for them in the future and there’s no sense trying to plan or predict any of it now.

“Do you think this bed will break if we’re both on it?” Harry asks.

“I won’t pretend I haven’t thought about it, but we’re not fooling around in your hospital bed. There’s someone sleeping on the other side of this curtain.”

“That’s not— I mean, I would, but I just want a cuddle.”

Louis hesitates. “Alright,” he says, pushing off his shoes. “That’s doable.”

He climbs onto the mattress with Harry, mindful of his wrist, and settles in beside him after a bit of shifting around. Lastly, he rests a hand on his waist.

“Seems sturdy enough,” he says. He studies Harry up close. “You’ve still got your beautiful face.”

“You only love me for my good looks.”

“Obviously,” Louis says, laughing, lightly flicking Harry’s nose. He kisses him softly and even though it must hurt, Harry kisses him back, more firmly. He runs his fingers through Louis’ hair and over his jaw.

“I want to stay here with you,” Harry says. “I haven’t worked out how yet, but I’m going to try to stay.”

Louis has to exercise a great deal of control to manage his expectations. “What about Tyler?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the London location is stable enough that we can both be here. And if it’s not, I’m willing to go there periodically,” Harry says, sounding uncertain. “I want to stay here. That’s all I know.”

“I just don’t want you to do it _ for _ me.”

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with deciding to be somewhere because someone you love is there. I love New York because I love you. But I’m also happier here than I’ve been in years. And of course, that has a lot to do with you, but not just you.”

“And what about your nice flat in London?”

“Oh, I was mostly saying that to gauge your reaction.”

“Twat.”

“I know,” Harry says. “I’ll talk to Tyler.”

+

Speak of the devil and he might just come marching up to your hospital bed minutes later. Tyler looks more unkempt than Louis’ ever seen him, and Harry’s smile is polite but tense when he sees him.

“Neither of you were answering your phone,” Tyler says to Harry. “I didn’t know if someone had come for you or not.”

“I did say I’ve got him,” Louis inserts.

There’s an awkward pause between the three of them.

“Well, I rented a car, so I can take you both home,” Tyler says.

The curtains parts again and this time it’s a doctor in baby blue scrubs. Louis quickly removes himself from the hospital bed in shame. “Lots of attention for a minor sprain,” the doctor says, removing her light from her breast pocket. She shines it into both of Harry’s eyes. “You’re very popular, Mr Styles.”

And Harry, of course, eats that right up. He’s grinning. Only at Louis, which almost makes him feel bad for Tyler. Almost.

He and Tyler are asked to wait outside. The hallway isn’t terribly busy and they sit opposite each other in silence. Louis knows he’s being observed and slowly it begins to test his nerves.

“Have you got something to say, mate?” Louis asks, catching Tyler in the act of staring at him.

“Yeah, actually,” Tyler says. He then takes several minutes to open his mouth. “I wanted to say sorry for being an arse the last time we talked. Harry isn’t too pleased with me, so—”

“So, you’re only sorry ‘cause you pissed him off?”

“No, listen—”

“I’ve been listening.”

Tyler looks at Louis, exhaustedly. “I know I said some harsh things the last time we talked,” he says. “I don’t expect this to fix everything, but I wanted to apologise—”

“You’re in love with him or something, aren’t you?”

It’s worth asking for the way Tyler’s whole face shrivels up. He looks like he’s swallowed a fly. “I’m _ married _,” Tyler says. “You came to my wedding.”

“That’s not really an answer,” Louis says, narrowing his eyes. “Are you all protective because you secretly want him for yourself, is that it?”

Tyler snorts. “No, that’s not it.”

Louis doesn’t believe him. “Yeah, alright.”

“If anything were to happen between me and Harry, it would’ve already. It’s not like that with us. It never has been. I’m in love with Sophie, my wife, who I married last week.”

“Sure,” Louis says. “Just know, that if you sabotage our wedding in a few years, I’ll kick your arse. That’s it.”

Tyler pinches the bridge of his nose. “I just want to apologise. That’s all.”

“I don’t accept your apology,” Louis says, matter-of-factly. “I think what you did was fucked up. And I don’t make a habit of being friends with people who hurt others just ‘cause they can.”

For the first time, perhaps in the history of his existence, Tyler looks mildly shameful.

“But I said what I said. I’m here to stay,” Louis says. “So, maybe one day, things will be different. But for now, if you want to make amends, just back the fuck off. And we’ll all do fine.”

They look at each other, Louis with his chin slightly raised.

Finally, Tyler gives a little nod. “Done.”

“Good talk,” Louis says, and then he stands and heads off in search of a vending machine, wondering whether Harry would fancy a soda.

+

At thirty-one, Louis knows how to cook for himself. He can bake chicken. He can mash potatoes. When in doubt, there’s cheese to improve almost any dish. And Trader Joe’s makes most dishes foolproof. But he never pushes his luck. It’s not since Harry that he’s even been tempted to. And it’s not since Harry sprained his wrist that Louis has the incentive to.

So, Louis prepares cacio e pepe with homemade spaghetti.

It’s all offensively easy, as in Louis could have been doing this for years if only he’d tried, but suddenly the possibilities of what he might be able to achieve in the kitchen are endless. If he can make his own pasta, he thinks, what can’t he make?

“I can sense your ego just hitting the roof right now,” Harry says to him.

“I mean, it’s fantastic-looking pasta,” Louis says. “I have to say.”

“Yeah, okay. You want to stir in the cheese now. And stir quickly. Not that quickly,” Harry says. “That’s great… Your arms look great like this.”

Louis laughs abruptly. “Okay, but how about the pasta?”

“Yeah, the pasta looks great, too,” Harry says, grinning.

“Exactly,” Louis says, triumphantly. “Can I stop stirring now?”

“I’m really enjoying watching you stir.”

“Harry.”

“Yeah, you can stop. I’ll get the bread.”

It’s a store-bought Italian loaf that they picked up along with a cartload of groceries on the way home from the hospital. So not homemade, but Harry promises to show him how to make no-knead bread next time. Also offensively easy, he assures Louis.

Louis twirls a fork around in the pasta and lifts it for Harry to taste. Harry keeps a straight face as he chews. He shrugs. “It’s amazing.”

Louis shakes his head. “You’re very funny,” he says, dryly. He feels Harry looking at him as he grabs plates and silverware and wine glasses. He hands him a plate, dishing out a heap of pasta. “Would you like wine as well, m’lady?”

“Of course.”

They reconvene on the bar stools together and dig in.

When the seasons change, particularly when summer fades into autumn, Louis always misses the sun in the evening. He knows in just another month he’ll miss the amber light gleaming through glasses of white wine and glowing on the white countertops and Harry’s copper pots and pans suspended above the dish rack. He’ll miss their shadows thrown on the white wall. But for now, he’s happy as usual with Harry and he gets to be happy with him for as long as light and life allows.

+

The sun has set by the time they start loading the dishwasher. His belly is full and he’s a little tipsy on the bottle of wine they finished. The first half of the day feels lightyears away. He senses Harry’s attention on him and asks, “What?”

Harry shakes his head. “I could get used to this,” he says after a minute. “I do like you cooking for me.”

“I can relate. We need to get you up and running again, love,” Louis says. “Maybe if you keep teaching me, though, I’ll be a chef one day too and we’ll even things out.”

“I can teach you something new every night if you want.”

“Sounds kinky,” Louis says. “I’ll find some things to teach you too.”

What stands out most, though, is that Louis will be here every night. But all summer, that was true. He remembers days would go by and he couldn’t remember the last time he was in his own apartment. He has clothes here that Harry washed and hung in the cupboard. Clothes in the drawers too. He takes a quick, furtive glance around the apartment and sees little pieces of himself everywhere. A ‘Congratulations” card from Sandra pinned to the fridge, although he has no idea how it ended up here. A Starbucks tumbler he usually takes to work. In the living room, on the back of the sofa is his hoodie and on the table, his Nintendo. When he was home the last few days, he remembers how odd that felt. Seeing Steve in the kitchen instead of Harry.

“What do you think about moving in with me?” Harry asks.

Louis shuts the dishwasher. “Are you a mind-reader now?”

Harry’s brows crease. “I didn’t know it was on your mind.”

“Sure, you didn’t,” Louis says, suspiciously.

“So, that’s a yes?”

Louis shakes his head, laughing. “I don’t think it’s fair for you to ask me while you’re looking at me like that,” he says. “I think that’s a sure way to get whatever you want.”

“How am I looking at you?” Harry asks, while very consciously, very deliberately, looking at him more intensely. Looking at Louis’ mouth, in particular. Harry leans in a bit and Louis waits for him. He’s been waiting for him and for this kind of kiss all week. Neither of them cares that Louis’ hands are damp as he rests them on Harry’s waist and steps even closer.

“Missed you,” Harry says, kissing his neck, his collarbones.

Louis pushes his hands into Harry’s hair, drawing him back so he can look him in the eye. “I missed you too,” he says. “I love you.”

Harry’s eyes are such a warm earthen green. Green like moss. And when he smiles, it’s like Louis has carved that dimple out himself. He presses his thumb into it and Harry’s smile grows bigger still, as if Louis were pressing into clay.

But beneath his touch, Harry’s skin is also warm and ruddy.

Because he’s a man, not a golem. He’s not made of clay, although he can be fragile. He blunders and he’s overconfident and he’s needy. He pouts when he apologises and he’s smug when he’s owed an apology. Sometimes he snores but swears he doesn’t. He’s funny, but he laughs at his own jokes before and after the punch line. He’s inherently distrustful and he hardly knows it. He’s still kind in spite of that. Sometimes too kind.

What a mess he can be, and Louis wants all of him. Louis has never wanted anything more.

“I love you too,” Harry says.

And so all that’s left is for Louis to kiss him again, this time with his tongue slipping into Harry’s mouth, with his fingers curling in Harry’s hair. This time with an urgency that encompasses all that love and wanting and understanding. A kiss that says ‘I know who you are’ and ‘I don’t want anything different’. 

Harry slips his uninjured hand beneath Louis’ shirt and it’s not like he can get the shirt off himself, so Louis takes pity on him — on them both — and pulls it off.

“Really missed this,” Harry says, setting his hand on Louis’ abs.

“We only went a few days without seeing each other. Not even a full week.”

“That’s still too long.”

Very needy. But Louis is also in agreement and perhaps that makes him needy too. “How do you want to make up for lost time?”

“I’ve got too many ideas,” Harry says, biting into his bottom lip. He runs his thumb along the waistband of Louis’ jeans, looking down between them, at Louis’ erection no doubt. “But we’ve got lots of time.”

“Pick one,” Louis says.

Harry takes Louis’ hand and takes a step back towards the bedroom. “I’ll try.”

“I should start the dishwasher first, shouldn’t I?” Louis asks.

Harry gives him a narrow-eyed look, tugging him into the bedroom. He pushes the door closed behind them. “Take it all off,” he says. “I’d do it, but I can’t.”

“Not very polite,” Louis says.

“Please?”

Louis hesitates, only for show, and then pops the button of his jeans. He sinks to the bed, pushing them down his legs. He gets rid of the pants too. Pushes off his socks. “Good?”

Harry nods, his Adam’s apple jumping, as he approaches the bed. “Okay, now me.”

Louis lifts his brows.

“Pretty please,” Harry adds.

Louis shuffles to the edge of the bed. He loosens Harry’s jeans and shoves them down, along with his pants. He presses his toes into the coarse material as Harry steps out of them and then kicks them away. Harry leans into Louis, nudging his thighs apart with his knees. Louis tugs his shirt up and off.

They’re on the same page, as always, minus a hiccup here and there. Louis doesn’t have to say what he wants or how he wants it. Harry knows to give it to him. He gets that determined, patient look on his face as he fingers Louis. That look that says he’d be content to sit there all night, pressing down inside of him, spreading him apart. It is both a selfless and a selfish act. The latter is evident whenever he leans in to lick at Louis like he can’t help it. He has to get a taste.

Louis reaches for a pillow to press over his face. Harry bats it to the floor, laughing as he climbs up to meet him. “Fuck me,” Louis says.

“I’m getting there.”

Louis shakes his head. “Get there now. Do it now.”

Harry can’t apply any weight to his right hand so he has to lean in close, resting on his elbows. After he’s rolled a condom on, this is how he pushes into Louis, their faces close and mouths close, their eyes locked. Then Louis tilts his head back, groaning, and gives in to the current again.

“Move in with me,” Harry says in time with an outright divine thrust.

“God, yes,” Louis breathes. “Fuck—”

“Yes, that feels good or yes, you’ll move in?”

“_ Both _. Jesus Christ, Harry.”

+

Louis dunks the sponge into the bathwater and presses it to Harry’s sternum. He senses Harry deep in thought and asks, “Is it warm enough?”

“Yeah. You should get in.”

Louis looks at the other end of the tub. “Might make it difficult for me to get you all clean.”

Harry looks at him, doe-eyed and pouty-lipped.

“You’re so spoiled,” Louis says, peeling off his shirt. He strips down and climbs in opposite him. “Happy?”

“Yeah, very.” Beneath the water, Harry runs his hand up Louis’ calf. “I talked to Tyler this afternoon. We met at the Mexican place downstairs.”

Louis draws his other leg up to his chest, resting his chin on his knee. “How’d that go?”

Harry looks at him, steadily. “I told him I’d go back to London like we planned, but only for a while. Not permanently. Sophie’s grandmum is in hospice. She doesn’t have much time left. So, Sophie and Tyler want Nomi to have as much time with her as possible. And then, they’ll have to sell her grandmum’s home. There are a lot of reasons why they need to be here right now, and it’s what we agreed on in the first place and I want to keep my word.”

Louis doesn’t move and he doesn’t say a thing.

“I don’t know if they’ll end up staying in New York or not. It seems unlikely. They’ve got more family in London. But I have to go back for right now and start searching for a head chef there. I’m only staying as long as it takes to find a chef, I promise.”

“So when you say a while…?”

“Three months, at least, I think. Six, at most. Definitely no longer than a year.” 

Louis wishes they weren’t in the tub. It’s hard to channel his emotions whilst completely naked. “That’s a huge leap from three months to a year, Harry.”

He’s thinking about Jon in London too. He feels himself beginning to spiral again and tries to plant his metaphorical feet on solid ground. 

“That’s absolutely a worst-case scenario. There’s no reason for it to take that long,” Harry says. “We just really want to make sure the restaurant is in good hands. Once we hire someone, we think it’s best if I’m there for at least a month afterwards, overseeing things. We’ve been talking about bringing on a new sous chef, as well—”

He trails off. Louis isn’t sure what horrible expression he’s making, but Harry frowns. “What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Louis says. “But it doesn’t change anything.”

Harry looks sceptical. “Doesn’t it?”

Louis rolls his eyes. At Harry and himself too. At all his worries. They’re futile, aren’t they? He’s chosen to be here and never in a million years would he choose otherwise.

“Come here,” Louis says.

Harry hesitates a second before repositioning himself in Louis’ arms, the water sloshing and then stilling once his back meets Louis’ chest.

Louis rests his chin on Harry’s shoulder for a minute. “I said we’d sort it out and we will,” he says, his voice slightly muffled. “I wouldn’t be here if I wanted otherwise. I think instead of us worrying ourselves, we should just enjoy this nice bath I drew for you.”

“It’s a very nice bath,” Harry agrees, running his hand through the pink water.

“You’re very welcome.”

The corner of Harry’s mouth turns upwards. A hint of a smile. “Do you feel like you need time to think about moving in now?” he asks carefully. “You’d be alone here a lot of the time.”

“Not entirely alone,” Louis says. “I’ll have Stevie.”

Then Harry is smiling fully. He turns to face Louis as best as he can, the water making noisy minuscule waves around them. He kisses Louis on the mouth.

“That” — he kisses Louis’ cheek — “is the most charming thing” — a kiss on Louis’ neck — “you’ve ever said to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://aliensingucci.tumblr.com/) | [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7sbOyjv7LohNysEMMLWeYp)


End file.
